


Sentience

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Sentience Fics [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Anal Sex, Android Emotions, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bugs & Insects, Comeplay, Dubious Consent, F/M, Felching, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions Past Abuse, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Robo!lock, Robot Sex, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 33
Words: 87,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had been overseas when England passed the law that recognized sentience in androids, and Afghanistan hadn’t caught up on that train yet so it had no effect on him until he returned. Discharged with a shoulder wound and a psychosomatic limp, John Watson found himself face to face with a freed android for the first time in his life. Mike, his contact with the ‘man’ who was looking for a flatmate, had neglected to mention that the person was in fact not technically a person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

 

John had been overseas when England passed the law that recognized sentience in androids, and Afghanistan hadn’t caught up on that train yet so it had no effect on him until he returned. Discharged with a shoulder wound and a psychosomatic limp, John Watson found himself face to face with a freed android for the first time in his life. Mike, his contact with the ‘man’ who was looking for a flatmate, had neglected to mention that the person was in fact not technically a person.

_Well that’s a bit racist,_ John thought to himself, _I guess I need to catch up to the times._

The android rattled off information about John based on whatever unbelievable central processor made the creature both brilliant and sentient. In fact, he was so brilliant that John had to resist the urge to tell him so. He wasn’t sure how to behave around the… person? While he was musing it all out and trying to figure out what had allowed the bot to read him so thoroughly, the thing suddenly announced his intent to have him as a flatmate and simply exited the room with a cryptic statement about a riding crop in a mortuary.

“Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and we’re going to go and look at a flat?”

“Problem?” The bot asked, quirking it’s head to the side jerkily, its first robotic-appearing movement since he’d seen him. If it hadn’t been for John’s medical training he probably wouldn’t have been able to spot that it was an android.

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your…” John cut himself off. Did androids have names? When he’d left for Afghanistan androids had been servants (slaves?) for the wealthy class, and had no names to his knowledge. They were known by letter and number codes or simply called ‘Jeeves’.

The bot rattled off more information about John, his history and psychiatric diagnosis, things he _shouldn’t_ have known. He ended it with an introduction, “Yes, androids do have names; Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.”

With that ‘Sherlock’ gave him an exaggerated wink and left the room. John stood in shock and confusion, waiting for the punch line and glancing at Mike in confusion.

“Yeah, he’s always like that.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The flat was spacious, if cluttered, and when he found out the clutter _all_ belonged to the android ( _Stop that! He has a name! Use it!)_ he was shocked to say the least, but not nearly as shocked as he was to find out the bot was a self proclaimed consulting detective.

“You have questions,” Sherlock stated as they sat in the cab and John tried not to get excited about something that was surely just a routine computer analysis by the droid.

John questioned him carefully, wanting to know how he’d made his ‘deductions’ but not sure if it was politically correct to ask about his operating systems. The bot insisted it was all about observation rather than any type of program he was running.

“Not that I haven’t designed, written, and run my own programs, but this was something I was capable of before hand.”

“Are all… sorry, is it alright to call you an android or what do I call you?”

“Android is fine,” Sherlock smirked.

“Right, are all androids capable of this feat?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

The silence that followed was awkward, but not unpleasant. It almost seemed as if the bot was waiting for another question.

“What?” John tried.

“This is usually the point where people ask me if I can feel emotions.”

“Can you?” John asked before he could lose his nerve.

“Yes, but I consider myself above such things.”

“That’s a bit…”

“Arrogant? Assuming? Rude? God-like?”

“I was going to say cold, but… yeah.”

“Your next question is ‘are you going to take over the world?’, but the answer is no.”

“I wasn’t going to ask that.”

“No, but you were thinking it, they all do.”

“Actually, I wasn’t,” John snorted, “But I figure if you do you can’t do worse than we have. You’re aware of human history?”

“I am aware of many things, history is one of them.”

“Then spend some time looking up ‘poverty’ and ‘war’ and let me know when you’ve found a solution to both of them. I’ll help you bump off the Queen herself if you manage that.”

Sherlock snorted, “You loved the war, you wouldn’t want it stopped.”

“I wouldn’t want it _started_ , either.”

Sherlock gave him a curious look, eyes narrowed in analysis, but John ignored his staring since it was rude. Eventually they reached the crime scene and John followed the man on a mad adventure to its bitter end, even meeting his former owner during that time who seemed to legitimately care for his welfare- in a creepy way. Apparently he’d treated Sherlock as a brother, of sorts, which was a comfort to John since he’d googled the robots designation and found out he’d been a pleasure bot.

In the end, John felt himself inexplicably drawn to the rude, abrupt, calculating, intelligent, enigmatic, and utterly beautiful android. He moved in with him after a mere 24 hours of meeting him, but more shocking than that was that he killed for him as well.  
  
[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/95097.html)


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had absolutely no regard for himself. He was fundamentally lacking the ability to care for his own basic needs. From nearly swallowing a pill that may or may not have contained a magnet that would fry his circuits if placed inside of his protective outer layer, to not bothering to re-charge his batteries until he was barely functional, John was kept on his toes the next few days as he adjusted to his new flatmate. When John nagged him he sulked. When John offered to help him by carrying a spare battery he accused him of being patronizing. When John grabbed his charging cable on the way out the door on the third day the android flipped out and told him to mind his own business.

John ended up storming off while Sherlock took a case on his own. A few hours later Lestrade called John and told him Sherlock had shut down at the Yard and could he bring his charging cable by? John followed the signs until he reached Homicide and when he walked in he headed for the group of laughing coppers to ask where Sherlock was… to find him the butt of their jokes. Sherlock was frozen in place, his eyes lifeless and one of his hands was raised in an expressive gesture. His face showed an irritated expression, but it was offset by a curly black moustache and pointy beard that someone had scribbled across his face in black marker. John flushed in outrage and instead of plugging Sherlock in where he sat he grabbed him up, shouldered him in a fireman’s carry, and hauled him out of the building. He got downstairs and hopped back in the cab he’d told to wait. Originally, he’d planned on just dropping off the cable and leaving, still too angry with Sherlock to put up with seeing him once he woke back up, but now he was angry at everyone else and felt bad for Sherlock. John pulled out some tissues from his pocket, spat on them, and tried to scrub the marker off Sherlock’s face. It was permanent marker, so he had little effect on it.

“He’ll have to use rubbing alcohol,” The driver intoned, “Works on my kid’s toys.”

“Thanks,” John sighed, glad Sherlock wasn’t able to hear them.

John hauled Sherlock upstairs, a much more difficult task as both gravity and a lack of outrage were pulling him down. Once there he placed Sherlock on the couch and searched for an open outlet. Then he paused.

_Should I clean off the marker first? What if rubbing alcohol is bad for his skin?_

John decided Sherlock would be humiliated if he saw himself like that, so he turned on his computer and looked up ‘clean your android’s skin’ to find a solution that would work. There were several articles, but they were all old and a few of them had comments on that stating that such and such advice had caused harm to a particular model. John knew Sherlock’s model number, it was imprinted on his neck right beneath his left ear in plain sight, but looking for specific instructions for him yielded no results. Sherlock was a custom job, his specks weren’t available and there was no telling which type of pseudo-skin he had based on look alone.

Giving that up as a lost cause, John plugged Sherlock in and watched him go through an automatic re-boot process. That included speaking in a voice that was _not_ his own, and it unnerved John immediately.

“Holmes Robotics Pleasure Android number 543R10CK has suffered an unexpected power failure. Please wait while systems are re-booted and circuitry is checked for malfunction… No viruses found… No damage located… chemical residue found on epidermis on location F12, F16, and HR14.2… Semen Reservoir empty… Oil supply low… Lubricant Reservoir empty… Battery power low… Power failure identified as level 1 drain… Systems fully operational in 3…2…1… John? Why are you blushing and how did I get here?”

“Ahhh, you’ve got a few low reservoirs.”

“Are you _examining me_?!” Sherlock asked, a look of disgust on his face, “My reservoirs are none of your concern!”

“You powered down at the Yard.”

“I… oh, no,” Sherlock looked furious, and he stood immediately and looked in the mirror over their fireplace, “Damn them all to hell! See if I ever help them on another case again!”

“I tried to get it off, but I didn’t want to hurt you,” John sighed, “I carried you out. I figured you wouldn’t want to be there with them _laughing_ at you. Sorry if I crossed a line.”

John stood to go to his room, eager to avoid the tantrum that was sure to follow, but the bot caught his arm and gave him a perplexed look.

“You carried me out? You didn’t want to hurt me?”

“Well, I looked a few things up and rubbing alcohol is supposed to take the marker off, but I didn’t want to hurt your skin. I wasn’t sure what to do, I’m used to treating humans, not er… sorry.”

“Rubbing alcohol is fine,” Sherlock nodded, and then headed toward the bathroom to take care of it himself.

John stood for a few moments, confused as to Sherlock’s sudden calm, but then decided _away_ was still a good idea so he went upstairs to his room. John was intensely grateful to Sherlock for getting rid of his limp, though it did crop up at the oddest times and this was one of them. He was trying _so hard_ to be a good friend to the android, but he didn’t even know why he had suddenly dropped all his trust and hope on one non-person in the first place. His actions the day he’d met Sherlock had been completely uncharacteristic for him. When he’d shown up at his therapy session the day after his doctor had been alarmed and warned him not to stay with Sherlock. She’d been concerned that his sudden attachment was unhealthy and that John had picked someone he thought ‘couldn’t die on him and wouldn’t need his medical care’ as a companion because of his trauma during the war. John had stormed out of his session after calling her a bigot.

John flopped down on his bed, but before he could decide what to do next- his laptop was downstairs and he hadn’t unpacked his books- there was a knock on his door. John staggered back across the room and opened the door. Sherlock looked back at him, his expression carefully blank and clear of offending black marks.

“I’d like to take you out to dinner to show you my gratitude for your assistance today. That is the correct response, is it not?”

“Ah, yeah, sure. Let me get my coat from downstairs.”

Sherlock questioning if it was the correct response had thrown John off. Usually the detective could mimic humans to the point of it being decidedly creepy, which was of course why he was so openly mocked at NSY. Well… that and his habit of insulting everyone he saw and revealing their most personal secrets in public. John grabbed his coat, toed on his shoes, and followed Sherlock out of the flat. They headed to Angelo’s again, and John smiled warmly at the cheerful Italian man and his assuming nature.

“Not his date,” John called after him, and then sighed in frustration as he was ignored and turned to Sherlock instead. “Do I _look_ gay? Is that it?”

“Technically I’m not male, so being a sexual partner of mine would not qualify you as a homosexual.”

“Oh, you’ve got interchangeable bits, have you?” John asked, half teasing.

“No, I have a fully functional set of male genitalia including- as you noted today- semen and lubricant reservoirs.”

“Which are empty,” John quipped with a grin, “Been using them up, have you?”

“No. I don’t self-gratify and I have no use for sexual partners,” Sherlock stated so firmly that John realized he’d crossed a line immediately.

“I’m sorry, I was just… Look, I’m trying to treat you like one of my mates, but I’m not sure how to act around you. You’re sensitive about things I normally joke about with friends, but you’ll discuss things most people shy away from as though it’s the weather. I’m trying here, Sherlock. I really am!”

Sherlock’s response was to fold his hands in front of his face, narrow his eyes, and study John quietly. John sighed in frustration.

“Should I go? Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

Their drinks arrived and John took an overly large gulp of water. Sherlock sipped his oil delicately as though to show John how _gentlemen_ enjoyed their beverages.

 _Well at least he’s re-filling one of his reservoirs. I wonder how that works? Does his body know where to put it based on what he’s pouring down his throat, or does he direct it before hand? Where does semen go when someone… hold up, Watson! Crossing a line with_ yourself _that time!_

“You’re blushing again,” Sherlock noted, “And you appear to be aroused.”

“More embarrassed than aroused,” John stammered in alarm. He wasn’t turned on… was he?

“What were you thinking of just then?”

“What, you can’t tell?” John teased.

“You were looking at my mouth rather intently, that would imply…”

“Let’s just end that thought there, shall we?”

“As you wish.”

“This isn’t working out, is it?” John sighed, “You can’t stand me as a flatmate.”

“You’re acceptable as a flatmate.”

“Acceptable?”

“Quite.”

“You snarl at me all day and stay up all night playing the violin and blowing things up in the kitchen.”

“You agreed to the violin and kitchen explosions,” Sherlock frowned.

“Yes, but I’d rather you spent some of that time re-charging your batteries so stuff like today doesn’t happen.”

“Than what you meant to say earlier, was that _you_ can’t stand _me_ as a flatmate,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“No. No, that’s not what I meant.”

“You wouldn’t be the first. Many of the possessions I own are mine because they were left behind when people moved out in a hurry.”

“That’s… oh…”

“You can, you know. I don’t expect you to stay. I won’t charge you an extra month.”

“I don’t want to move out,” John replied honestly, “I like going on cases with you, I don’t mind the violin or the explosions. I just don’t know how to stop pissing you off all the time.”

“You aren’t pissing me off. I’m stroppy.”

John blinked and then burst out laughing, “You are that, aren’t you?”

A small smile spread across Sherlock’s full lips, “Yes.”

“Why is that?”

“Part of the sentience development is that androids all have unique personalities now. Mine is moody and petulant.”

John laughed again, “Well, mine is patient and danger-hungry.”

“Then we mix well.”

“Yeah, we do,” John grinned.


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 3

True to his word, Sherlock refused to work a single case he was called on for three weeks in a row, which led to something John had never considered before. Robots could get bored. Sherlock was going mad looking for something to do. At first his experiments kept him busy, but after a while he began to study _John_ instead, which was an alarming development to say the least.

“Why do you eat the things you do? I’ve done taste analysis of several of the foods you eat, and yet I see no correlation between them and their far healthier yet equally flavorful counterparts.”

“Name an equally tasty yet healthy counterpart to crisps,” John deadpanned.

“Seasoned potato wedges.”

“What is the prep and cook time?”

“From fresh, two hours. From frozen seven minutes.”

“What is the prep and cook time of crisps?”

“Excluding having to pre-heat the oil for boiling, twelve minutes. From a bag… a few seconds to open it, I suppose,” Sherlock shrugged.

“There’s your answer,” John replied, popping another crisp into his mouth and chomping on it.

“But if you continue at this rate than I estimate you will lose your military figure within three months and be morbidly obese in three years time.”

John rolled up the crisps and stuffed the bag into the bin.

“I’m going shopping, you need anything?” John asked.

“More beakers and a large uncooked, unfrozen chicken.”

“Right, ta.”

When John returned from the store- sans his groceries and temper- he found Sherlock staring pensively at John’s laptop. John rolled his eyes at the androids usual lack of respect for his privacy and then sighed at the sight of a large gash in the table.

“What happened to your groceries?” Sherlock wondered.

“I had a row with the chip and pin machine.”

“You had a… you had a row with a machine?”

“Well why not?! I do that every day here anyway!”

“Yes, but I can _respond_ ,” Sherlock smirked; leaving John silently grateful he hadn’t lost his temper at his callous comment.

“Yes, well, this one just _sat there_ while I yelled abuse at it.”

“Terribly rude of it,” Sherlock chuckled.

“Listen, I know you don’t actually eat the food, but you do use it for experiments sometimes so can I borrow some cash or something?”

“Take my card,” Sherlock nodded to the table, and then went back to frowning at John’s laptop.

John sat in his chair nervously, glancing over the pile of bills.

“I know you said you wouldn’t take another case from the Met, but my pension isn’t enough to pay all our bills, Sherlock,” John worried.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied softly.

“I hate to nag but… um… are you listening?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s on that laptop that’s so fascinating? Aside from my personal and private information, that is.”

“It took me less than a minute to guess your password, if there’s so much private information on here you might want to lock it down… but I’d suggest starting by deleting your browser history. Honestly, John, who can watch _that much porn_ in twenty-four hours?”

“A single man. Why are you avoiding answering me about what you’re watching? ‘Cause we’ve already established that my porn links won’t interest you.”

“I’ve gotten an e-mail from the bank.”

“Oh,” John replied, glancing at the bankcard in his hand.

“I’m not sure if I should respond or not. I’m… uncomfortable.”

“Have they said something regarding you being an Android or something?”

“No, but he’s bound to.”

“Well, you can’t take that lying down, Sherlock. It’s discrimination. You’ve got rights now.”

Sherlock nodded, his brow furrowed, “But I didn’t six years ago, and that’s the problem.”

“Pardon?” John asked in confusion. Android rights had existed for the last five years, last he’d checked.

“Will you go with me?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at the computer and biting his lip.

“Of course, Sherlock,” John replied, honestly flattered, “I’m behind you 100%.”

Sherlock stood up without replying and headed for the door, John following in his wake with rounded shoulders, ready to take on anyone who would dare treat his flatmate like an inferior being.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The bank they went to was clearly an investors bank, large and in charge, and John was instantly floored by both the security and the posh atmosphere. They headed up to the front desk were the woman in charge looked down her nose at them. John puffed out his chest and narrowed his eyes, but before he could start showing off his Captain’s voice Sherlock asked for someone by the name of Sebastian Wilkes. She walks away with a sneer, but returns with a polite nod and lead them into a huge office.

Sherlock and John sat down across from the large-jowled man and he immediately begins eying Sherlock up as though he were on display in lingerie.

“Well, well, well, don’t you look respectable now, 543.”

“I go by Sherlock now.”

“Charming, of course, did you think that name up by yourself?”

“What did you want to see me about, Sebastian?”

Sebastian’s eyes darkened in anger, but he didn’t explain why and the expression was only fleeting before an oily smile replaced it.

“Do you still have that ‘talent’ you had when I owned you?” Sebastian asked, earning a shocked look from John, “I mean the one where you could see through everyone and everything, not the _other_ talent.”

Sherlock didn’t reply and Sebastian frowned a bit and glanced at John.

“I was Sherlock’s original owner. I ordered him to my specs exactly, a custom job. However, he wasn’t ‘happy’ with me. He was one of the second generation models to start showing ‘sentience’,” Sebastian said as though he didn’t truly believe they were, “He ran away, back to his factory and his creator, and demanded he be recognized as a living being. When he overdramatized my supposedly _abusive_ treatment of him, the company president bought him back from me at an exorbitant price and gave me a… less temperamental model.”

“He means one without conscious thought,” Sherlock explained, “Six years ago androids were still being developed that didn’t have sentience. No one quite knows what makes that happen, which is why an android has to prove it has cognizant thought and the ability to self-express before they are recognized as a living being despite the fact it’s been three years since a single non-sentient robot over Level 6 was created.”

“How is Mycroft?” Sebastian asked, “Still carrying around that umbrella sword?”

“There’s a sword in his umbrella?” John asked in alarm.

“Of course there’s a sword in his umbrella,” Sherlock scoffed, “Mycroft doesn’t ‘own’ me anymore, if that’s what you’re asking. No one does.”

“Oh, and who’s this? Your boyfriend?” Sebastian smirked.

“Colleague,” John corrected at the same time Sherlock said, “Flatmate.”

“Flatmate? Colleague?” Sebastian laughed, “Boyfriend it is, then.”

“What do you want, Sebastian? My time is valuable,” Sherlock sneered.

“Oh, I’m sure it is. Whores get paid by the hour, after all.”

John was on his feet in an instant, but Sherlock’s hand on his wrist stopped him from flattening out that aristocratic nose.

“Good day, Sebastian,” Sherlock stated quietly, then stood and headed for the door.

“Someone broke in,” Sebastian stated as Sherlock’s hand touched the handle, “On the fifteenth floor, with no broken windows, with no alarms set off, without appearing on our cameras.”

John saw Sherlock shiver, just barely visible, but Androids don’t get chills, which could only mean…

“What did they take?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing, but they left something.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

John walked away from the nightmare of being held hostage by Shan with his arm draped over Sarah’s shoulders. She seemed to be in a bit of shock, but was trying to be cheerful. John thought she was very brave for not running in the opposite direction the second she’d gotten untied. He saw her home after being assured that she was fine and then got back in the cab with Sherlock.

“Thank you for saving us,” John told him as they drove back to 221B.

“Yes, well, I can’t pay the rent on my own, can I?”

John snorted, “No, especially not with how few cases you’re getting now you’re on strike from the Yard. Although, I suppose Sebastian’s money will tide you over for a bit.”

“Tide _us_ over for a bit. It’s half yours. I’d rather not even take it from him, considering.”

John sat in silence for a while. He wanted to ask Sherlock what Sebastian Wilkes had done to him, but he didn’t think he’d be able to control himself if he found out. Instead he went for levity.

“I don’t suppose you could just prank them back and get it over with?”

“Who? The Yard?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock gave John a considering look, “What kind of prank?”

[CHAPTER FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/95559.html)   



	4. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 4

This chapter dedicated to LadyLaran and Snogandagrope for their fantastic ideas. This wouldn’t have happened without you two!

 

Greg walked into the Yard and past his crew, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at several of them as they nervously stepped in front of their computers.

_Great. Now what?_

Once he reached his office he unlocked it, stepped inside, and calmly headed for his computer. The office kept them in sleep mode overnight so his screensaver danced across it. Normally it was a picture of his wife and kids, but out of the corner of his eyes he saw it had been changed. Greg’s eyes widened in horror as a black and white clip of him wanking in an alley flickered across the screen. He knew exactly when and where that was. Sherlock’s ‘brother’ had shown up at a scene, bullied him into an alley, and read him the riot act concerning his ‘little brother’. Greg had never been more turned on in his life, so the second the man had flounced off, brolly swinging; he had tugged his trousers open and fisted himself until he came in his pants. You couldn’t see his privates in the video, he’d never fully pulled himself out, but there was no doubt what he was doing and it was _clearly_ him. You could even see some crime scene tape at the corner of the clip.

“Sir?” Sally’s voice spoke up nervously and Greg actually flipped his monitor down in an attempt to stop her seeing the image on the screen. Sally winced, “You’ve got one too, then?”

“What… what…”

“It’s on all of them. We can’t seem to get them to change back. There’s some sort of virus blocking it.”

Greg groaned in horror, “Can they be turned _off?_ As in the whole sleep mode shut down?”

“No, ‘fraid not. And the settings have been lowered. One minute of inactivity and the screen saver comes on. Oh, and you can’t shut the computer off, either.”

“Blood hell!” Greg sat down hard at his desk, and rubbed a hand over his face, “Call IT.”

“Sir… about the video on mine…”

“I don’t want to know, just call IT and let me talk to them before they touch anyone’s computers.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Greg rolled his eyes upwards for a moment, wondering what he’d done to deserve this, and then headed out into the bullpen to make sure no one was being unduly bullied. Apparently not everyone had been victimized, but for the life of him he couldn’t see the pattern. When he stepped outside Sally told him Anderson down in CSI had been pranked as well. So had Jason from security.Sadly, this distribution meant that not everyone was sympathetic and there was a great deal of snickering and finger pointing. Rob was doing a rather piss poor impersonation of someone snogging someone else and crooning Anderson’s name in a grating falsetto; no mystery what _that_ was about. Jason from security stomped in and announced to the room at large that he was _not_ ashamed and then opened his button down to reveal a lacy black bra.

“And the lot of you can suck my tits!”

Then he left and headed for the department down the hall, apparently making sure everyone heard it from him rather than the rumor mill.

“Good for him,” Greg snickered, “His got bigger bollocks than I have… and bigger ‘tits’ than my wife.”

“Easy for you to say,” Anderson growled as he showed up on the scene with his CPU tucked under his arm to avoid his dilemma, “Yours is in your _office,_ the rest of us are _public._ ”

Greg was about to make some comforting remark when Sally sighed and said, “Cleaning crew.”

“Oh, shit,” Greg groaned, “So you know?”

“Everyone does, sir,” Sally replied, giving her mouse a shake to stop her screen saver from popping up, but then she saw Anderson’s solution and simply unplugged her computer.

Dimmock walked out of his office and glanced around nervously.

“Yes, we know,” Sally stated, “Everyone knows.”

“I don’t know,” Greg stated, “And I don’t want to.”

“It’s fine,” Dimmock sighed, “I was in Uni at the time. I’m sure everyone’s done stupid stuff in Uni.”

“Not usually sheep, though, mind you,” Anderson replied, giving him a disgusted look.

“It was part of a haze!” Dimmock snapped, “I was _drunk_. Seriously pissed! I didn’t even know what I was doing! I did my time, you know? Community service.”

“Some say that’s what Sally’s doing with Anderson,” Frank snickered at them, his computer screen showed him being dragged out of a casino by security after having _literally_ lost his shirt. He appeared to be crying. He seemed unbothered by it.

“Really, though, a _crime scene_?” Dimmock asked Greg, “I mean, you could still see the tape in the clip. Was the corpse that pretty? That’s gotta be worse than a sheep, right?”

“It wasn’t over the corpse! It was bloody Sherlock’s so-called ‘brother’ and he…”

Greg’s eyes widened as all the screens around them- including the ones not previously affected- suddenly changed to Sherlock and John’s faces. They were both decorated with marker moustaches and beards, and Sherlock had blacked out and closed one eye so it appeared to be a pirate’s eye patch. He and John were both leveling them with a two-finger solute.

“ARRR you sorry?!” Sherlock’s voice demanded followed by John’s laughter.

The damn thing was on repeat and the entire building was probably echoing with it.

“Get me Sherlock Holmes! Now!” Greg barked at the entire room.

 

A/N: So we’re clear, only the people involved in hazing Sherlock were pranked, which is why not everyone was. Sherlock hacked Lestrade’s phone and got some photos from it that showed who was there. He’s resourceful like that ;)

[CHAPTER FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/95843.html)   



	5. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 5

Sherlock was back on good terms with Scotland Yard after several apologies were issued on behalf of the department for being ‘insensitive’ to Sherlock. Sherlock had also apologized… in his own way, which was by fixing their computers and providing them with some much needed security advice and protective software. Now that he was busy again John was free to feel like strangling him less; which he’d learned from the case of the Blind Banker could actually do harm to an android since their wires had to fit through such a narrow area. It did not, however, stop them from speaking. Apparently that was located in what on a human would be their sinus cavity. Androids literally talked out their noses, but they moved their mouths in an attempt to look more ‘human’. Sherlock had demonstrated how he spoke without moving his lips and it had been rather humorous, especially since his voice didn’t sound muffled at all.

“So your nose is a pair of speakers?”

“Basically. It’s a good location for them,” Sherlock explained, “As they are angled down so there’s less chance of them getting wet; incidentally I can close my nostrils to protect them in case I’m submerged in fluids and the like. The mouth is then left free to be used for various other things. As you know, I can drink and eat if I so choose- I replenish various tanks in my ‘body’ that way. Since I’m a pleasure bot model, I’m also expected to receive various bodily fluids in my oral cavity. Anything unnecessary to my function gets flushed into a sort of rubbish compartment, if you’re wondering.”

“Gross,” John nodded matter-of-factly.

“I think so, too. It’s annoying because I then have to empty it.”

“Ahhh, don’t tell me how.”

“Very well.”

Sherlock received a text at that point and was called off to a case. John had work at the surgery in an hour, so he couldn’t join him. He wondered about it all day, eager to get home and be regaled by details, but when he reached the flat Sherlock was still out.

**Where are you? I’m home so I can join you now. – JW**

**Want some assistance? – JW**

**I’d like to help. – JW**

After the third text was ignored, John sulked in his room for a bit and then decided if he finally had some privacy he’d have a good wank. Sex was always an off topic for Sherlock, and if John tossed off while the bot was home he invariably _knew_ somehow and was uncomfortable around John for a full day. John had taken to waiting till the android was away or doing it in the loo at work during his break. Now that the stroppy robot was out, however…

John had pulled up a few clips on the internet, but they weren’t working much for him today so he just shut it off and focused on the feel of his skin gliding over his hard shaft. He tried to imagine it as someone else’s hands touching him, and his mind changed the shape to longer, thinner fingers. He wondered absently how it would feel to the person touching and focused on that for a bit; the smooth feel of satin skin wrapped around hard steel. John was just coming to grips with the fact the fingers he was fantasizing about weren’t very feminine, and with the fact that was making his stomach tighten deliciously, when his bedroom door flew open and Sherlock burst in despite it’s previously locked state.

“John! I’ve solved the case!” Sherlock announced, his face beatific in his obvious pride and joy.

John came with a strangled scream, his come painting his torso as he thrust frantically into his tight fist.

There was a moment in which they both simply stared at each other. Sherlock was looking down at John’s privates, then up at his face, then back down again with a slightly panicked look. John was staring at him in horror with his hand still wrapped around his wilting cock, but completely unable to move. Finally, Sherlock broke the tension when a grin quirked across his face.

“Why John, and here I thought _I_ was excited about solving a case.”

John couldn’t help it. He laughed. He laughed until his sides hurt and tears were running down his cheeks. Sherlock’s deep voice joined him and John’s shaking hands tugged part of his duvet over to cover his privates.

“Barmy robot! Get out so I can make myself presentable!” John snickered.

“I think you’ve presented enough for one day don’t you?”

“Oi! You’re the one who barged in! You’re lucky my bed faces this way, if it had been turned you’d have _really_ gotten an eyeful!”

Sherlock laughed his way down the stairs and John cleaned up, threw on his sleeping clothes, and headed downstairs to be regaled by Sherlock’s story of a man and a stolen brooch, a framed son, and a guilty young ward that had been tricked by her scheming lover.

[CHAPTER SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/96212.html)   



	6. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 6

This chapter skips ahead a lot. I apologize, but there was no way to skip it completely since I needed the space for world/relationship building and it was kinda important. From here on out stuff will be VERY different from the series, but this one just has a few altered scenes. If you’re thrown off, use this as an excuse to re-watch this epic episode ;)

I’m trying REALLY hard not to rush to the part I want to write the most… it’s not working. I will continue to strive not to destroy this story with my impatience.

 

“So why is he doing this, playing this game with you? You think he wants to be caught?”

“Hmm, I think he wants to be distracted,” Sherlock replied with a small smile.

“Huh. I hope you’ll be very happy together,” John replied in disgust.

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asked, confusion crinkling his perfect brow.

“There are lives at stake! Sherlock, actual, human lives. Just so I know, do you care about them at all? Or are we all so much meat and entertainment to you?”

“Will caring about them save them?” Sherlock demanded.

“Nope.”

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake.”

“And you find that easy, do you?” John asked angrily.

“Yes, very. Is that news to you?” Sherlock asked, his tone disdainful.

“No, no,” John replied with a sarcastic grin.

“I’ve disappointed you.”

“It’s good, it’s a good deduction, yeah.”

“Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them. And don’t mistake my having emotion for my having _human_ emotion. I am an android. Function overrides expression. Every. Time. Just because I am alive doesn’t mean I’m in love with life.”

The mystery phone went off and he was back in case mode while John’s mind reeled with his harsh words. He barely heard him ordering him to check the papers. He was aching with a mixture of emotions, ones that he felt so strongly that he wondered if he were trying to feel _for_ Sherlock.

_What happened to you? What did Sebastian Wilkes do that made you… cold like this? I’ve seen you laugh. I’ve seen you angry. I’ve seen you fascinated. Those are emotions; they’re human ones, too. Are you saying you don’t value life? I know you don’t care about your own or a strangers, but what about mine? Do I matter to you, Sherlock Holmes? Because you matter to me, and that scares the hell out of me. It’s been too long since anyone mattered._

XXXXXXXXXX

John went around to find a shooting spot or head Golem off in the flickering planetarium- whichever was more effective. Sherlock was taken by surprise as Golem attempted to smother him from behind. Clearly he didn’t realize that Sherlock was an android when he covered his mouth and nose, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t harm him or even rip off his head and do serious damage. If too much was done, it could be irreparable.

“Let him go, or I will kill you,” John threatened, keeping the gun trained on him.

Golem must have realized the person in his grasp wasn’t human because he tossed Sherlock aside like a rag doll and charged John, knocking the gun out of his hand before he could get off a shot. He managed to stun John, but then went after Sherlock again as the higher threat. Sherlock bounced into a boxing stance and Golem prepared to counter, but the bot was overwhelming and took him down. This time when he went to attack Sherlock he raised a hand to smash in his central processors.

John jumped onto the monstrosity’s back using a sleeper hold to try and take him down quickly. The beast still managed to dislodge John and tossed him like a rag doll, making a run for it. Sherlock drew his gun and fired twice, but missed him due to the flashing lights.

“I thought androids couldn’t kill humans?” John asked in alarm, “Or was he one, too?”

“If he is, he’s custom,” Sherlock replied, helping John to his feet and checking him over for injuries, “Are you hurt?”

“No, but you didn’t answer me. You shot at him.”

“Does that frighten you?”

“No, leaves me a bit relieved, actually. Now I know you can defend yourself.”

“Good.”

“What about the three laws?”

“I’ve already disproved the second and third, does the first shock you?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“You weren’t here during the debates for robot rights,” Sherlock replied, leading him out of the planetarium and getting a better look at the bruise on his forehead, “One of the signs of sentience in an android is an ability to ignore the laws. We still feel an urge to obey them, but we don’t _need_ to. For this reason many humans lobbied to have us all wiped out, fearing that we’d want to kill them en-masse and take over the world or some other odd rubbish.”

“I’d heard the term Electronic Holocaust when I was in Afghanistan, but I didn’t have much time to catch up on the politics.”

“Many were dismantled the second they showed even the slightest traces of sentience in the factory, but the worst of it were the e-bombs.”

“E-bombs?”

“Electro-magnetic pulses. They can go straight through our protective outer shell- what you see as our skin. It wipes us out completely: no reset, no factory-restore, nothing. If a new battery is placed in us and we’re turned on we don’t even have basic programming and there’s no way to bring back the existence that originally existed; even if you re-install the software the android will function as it was originally intended but with a _programmed_ personality- not real consciousness. Whatever the spark of life was that creates sentience in a robot, that ends it.”

“Oh, gods,” John whispered, looking up at Sherlock in horror, “Did that…?” He paused, licked his lips, and tried again, “Did that happen often?”

“Yes. There are no true numbers known since androids that were sentient were often hiding it at that point to avoid persecution, but it was estimated that one in six created that year were sentient. The amount built were ten thousand, the amount deactivated by e-bombs were five thousand.”

“Oh, gods,” John repeated, eyes widened, “Tell me those are illegal now!”

“Quite.”

“Small mercies, eh?”

“Yes, I suppose, but we’d better get on with it. I think our last course of action is to get Lestrade to the museum and try to confront the curator. We _must_ prove the painting a fake before our bomber loses patience.”

XXXXXXXXXX

John watched as Sherlock displayed actual _concern_ for the life of the child on the phone.

“He’s speeding up!”

“Sherlock!”

“ _Four…”_

“Oh! In the planetarium, you heard it too! That is brilliant, that is gorgeous!”

_“Three…”_

Sherlock shoved the phone into John’s arms as he passed him.

“What’s brilliant, what is?” John asked, panic filling him as Sherlock checked his phone for a moment.

“This is beautiful, I love this!” Sherlock grinned.

“ _Two…”_

“Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted, his face flushed.

“The Van Buren supernova!”

_“Please is somebody there? Somebody help me!”_

John was breathless from Sherlock’s display, both of anxiety and of enjoyment. He watched the man storm off, paused to study the painting, marveling at the find, and then followed after him in relative awe. His phone chirped at him with an ominous message from Mycroft, but John couldn’t be bothered. He was experiencing one of those rather embarrassing anxiety erections, the sort he had after arguments or fights from the adrenaline not dropping when it was supposed to. He was half tempted to find a loo and wank. In fact, he was going to do exactly that and shouted after Sherlock that he was going to see about the murder on the tracks Mycroft was badgering him about.

Sherlock didn’t even look back and John found a discreet place in the museum’s handycapped loo while they arrested the curator- he figured only the police and she were there so it was unlikely to be needed. John sat on the closed lid and stroked himself off while replaying the scene in his head.

_Really my love of danger is a bit unhealthy_ , John thought, his mind replaying the look of fury on Lestrade’s mug, the fear on Miss Wenceslas’ face, the flashes of expression on Sherlock’s oh-so-perfect visage. John wanted to snog him. He didn’t know why since he’d never wanted a male _anything_ before, but he wanted Sherlock and the arousing danger that surrounded him. He wanted the anticipation, the intelligence, the wonder, and the thrill of the chase. He wanted his sharp tongue to be rendered useless with pleasure. He wanted his fathomless eyes to roll back in his head. He wanted to see that schooled expression morph into one of shock and desire. He wanted to watch Sherlock Holmes come undone. John didn’t even care if he received any kind of gratification if he could just be the one to take the consulting detective apart and put him back together again.

John bit his bottom lip as he came hard into a bit of tissue paper held over his prick to stop the splatter from staining his clothes. He gasped a moment, riding the wave of pleasure until it ebbed. He felt boneless and could have curled up and gone to sleep right then, but he really did need to get down to the tracks and figure Mycroft’s mess out since Sherlock was too busy playing Cluedo with a psychopath.

John sighed, tucked himself back in, flushed his spunk, washed his hands, checked his appearance in the mirror (debauched) and headed out to attempt to solve a crime on his own.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John got into the cab and the first thing he noticed was that the doors clicked locked. He tugged at them, but they wouldn’t open. He banged on the window and shouted, but there was no one on the out and about this time of night. The vid-screen came on and a dark haired and eyed man with a narrow face and sharp nose appeared. John met the eyes in alarm, knowing instinctively that this was no advert- especially since he looked vaguely familiar.

“ _Sshhhh,”_ the man hissed, placing a finger to his lips.

Static took over the picture and a hiss filled the cabin. John covered his hands over his mouth and nose, but he could only hold his breath for so long. He twisted about to kick out the window, but he’d already gotten a dose of the gas and his movements were weakened. The cab was driving and a sudden swerve knocked him onto the floor and the air rushed out of his lungs to be filled with more of the dizzying substance. John went limp and knew nothing until he awoke in a damp changing room with a bomb strapped to his chest beneath his coat. He sat there for several minutes, trying to think of a safe way to get the bomb off, but a red dot dancing on his chest told him not to try.

_“Show time, Johnny boy,”_ A lilting Irish voice sang to him in his ear, _“Walk out that door in front of you. I think you know how this goes, but lets just be sure. You only say what I tell you to or… BOOM!”_

John could hear Sherlock’s voice in the distance as he headed for the door, but his words were indistinct. Then he pushed through the door and saw the look of betrayal on the android’s face and he knew in that instance he’d die for him. If he had the chance to save Sherlock’s life, even at the risk of his own, he’d take it because this creature- this brilliant, mad, lonely creature- deserved a longer life and a chance to learn to trust someone besides a tired old wounded soldier.

“Evening. This is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock,” John recited.

“John. What the hell…” Sherlock asked, walking slowly forward with his heart on his sleeve for the first time since John had met him.

“Bet you never saw this coming,” John continued in a monotone. _It’s not me, Sherlock. Recognize that. Please! I don’t want to die with you thinking I turned on you._

_“Open your jacket as you say the following…”_ The voice instructed and John was relieved for that bit.

“What do you want me to make him say next?” John parroted, glancing down and seeing a red dot appear.

Sherlock didn’t look relieved, if anything he looked more panicked as he looked around to locate the snipers.

“Gottle of geer, gottle of geer, gottle…”

“Stop it,” Sherlock interrupted, his face turning calculating.

“Nice touch this, the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him,” John let the reality of the situation wash over him and closed his eyes in acceptance so Sherlock could see his it, “I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart.”

“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded.

The door opened and a now familiar voice called out from behind John instead of in his ear.

“I gave you my number. I thought you might call.”

The two men exchanged what was probably rather witty banter, but John found himself waxing jealous at the obvious sexual tension in the room. From Moriarty’s request if Sherlock was ‘happy to see him’ to the threats, it was obvious that the man was mad and Sherlock was fascinated. Sherlock was looking at him the way he usually looked at John when John managed to surprise him.

Then John saw his opening and snatched the consulting criminal up with a shout for Sherlock to run.

“Oh, good! Very good!” Moriarty laughed.

Sherlock’s lips were tightened into a thin line, confusion and worry warring on his face.

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up,” John whispered, trying to convince Sherlock to leave with his eyes as he tugged the frustratingly taller man down into a tighter grip.

“Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around, but then people do get so sentimental about their pets. And so touchingly loyal but… OOPS!” Moriarty made a gesture with his eyes and then grinned over his shoulder at John, “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.”

John gave the dot on Sherlock’s head a look of horror and watched his flatmate sigh and shake his head subtly to indicate he knew.

“Gotcha!” Moriarty teased as John released him and backed off.

John was panicking, his hands held up in surrender as he realized he was utterly helpless to aid his closest friend. He lost track of the conversation while he frantically searched for an opening until he heard Moriarty emphasize his words again.

“I will burn the _heart_ out of you,” The man growled.

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” Sherlock replied flatly.

“We both know that’s not _quite_ true,” The man snickered.

Sherlock made a threat, but it was a weak one and even John knew it. The man mocked him for it a bit, basically calling Sherlock a coward, and then he was heading away as though they’d just had a merry chat outside the Tesco instead of one involving guns, bombs, and the smell of fear.

Sherlock all but dropped the gun and ran to John, kneeling before him to tug off the vest full of explosives.

“All right?” He asked, but John didn’t register it as adrenaline pumped blood south for the second time in eight hours… and Sherlock was on his knees in front of him… “Are you all right?!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” John panted, hoping Sherlock mistook unbelievable, aching arousal for anything other than what it was, then as the man tugged his jacket off, “I’m fine, Sherlock, Sherlock!”

Sherlock stared at John while he stood breathless in the pool and then took off after Moriarty. John took a step forward to follow him, but his legs went out from underneath of him with a gasped swear.

John staggered to the ground, bollocks drawn up tight as though he were on the edge of orgasm with only the stimulation from his tight jeans, Sherlock’s banter with Moriarty, and the threat of death. He winced as the new position pinched him a bit, but it helped to dissuade his erection.

_Well, at least I’m not hot off pain, too. That would be a bit much._

“Are you okay?” John worried as Sherlock paced the pool in a state of heightened anxiety.

“Me? Yeah, fine, fine, fine,” Sherlock stopped, avoiding his eyes and waving the gun dangerously, “That, uh, thing that you… that you did, that you offered to do, that was um…”

“It was nothing,” John panted.

“It was bloody stupid,” Sherlock stammered.

“Yeah, well… I’m glad no one saw that.”

“Hmm?”

“You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool,” John muttered, adjusting his clothing as casually as he could, “People might talk.”

“People do little else,” Sherlock smirked.

They grinned at each other a moment, and John started to lever himself to his feet just as Sherlock started to speak again.

“It really was stupid, John. I’m not really _alive_ , not like you are…”

“Sherlock, bloody hell, what did androids fight for five years ago if not… oh no…”

“Sorry boys!” Jim Moriarty’s voice called out, “I’m sooooooo changeabllle. It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness.”

John was braced in a crouch against the wall; eyes squinted shut as his body warred with itself between arousal and flat-out fear. Fear won as dots danced across their bodies and his erection wilted to give him a bit of breathing room for fight or flight response. Nearby he heard Sherlock click the safety back off the gun.

“You can’t be allowed to continue,” Moriarty continued as John looked up at him in horror, “You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your miiind.”

Sherlock glanced down at John, a deep frown of apology on his face showing how sorry he was for John being in this situation. Not for himself, though, never for himself. John gave him a slight nod. _If we go out, we do it together._

“Probably my answer has crossed yours,” Sherlock replied, turning smoothly and leveling the gun at the bomb.

John’s breathing picked up, regrets flashed through his mind but none of them bad enough to cause him pain. He’d done a lot of good in life and a bit of bad, too. He’d never kissed Sherlock, or brought him to that mindless abyss of pleasure he had fantasized about earlier, but he’d been his friend and he’d die by his side. That was enough. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Moriarty cocked his head to the side, a bit of nervousness mixed in with his own amusement as he truly wondered if Sherlock would do it. A taunting glance, a smirk, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, the song ‘Staying Alive’ by the Bee Gees filled the air...

_Wait, what?  
  
_

[CHAPTER SEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/96499.html)

 


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 7

After the catastrophe at the pool, hours of questioning by Lestrade and Gregson, and lots of screaming at Anderson by Sherlock, John and Sherlock headed home with lead feet. They walked in through the doorway and John collapsed into his chair with a groan. Sherlock headed to the kitchen and began tinkering about. It wasn’t until John heard the teakettle whistling that he realized that Sherlock was making tea. While it was true that he could, and occasionally did, drink tea, there was really no cause for it at 0700 when there was no company about.

Then he brought the cup to John and held it out to him.

“You made me tea?”

“You need it.”

“I do, thanks,” John sat up and took the cup in his shaking hands, frowning at them, “I suppose you’ll scare the shaking back out of me again?”

“It will pass in time; it’s a response to overwhelming stimulus, unsatisfied arousal, and lack of sleep.”

John winced at the ‘unsatisfied arousal’ part, but covered it up with a steaming gulp of tea.

“Thanks,” John repeated, referring to the tea.

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock nodded, and sat in his chair to study John as though he were a fascinating specimen under his microscope.

“Something on your mind?” John asked.

“You tried to sacrifice yourself for me.”

“Yes, I did. You’re my mate and you had a better chance of living seeing as how there wasn’t a bomb strapped to you.”

“I’m not _alive_. Don’t do that again, John,” Sherlock chided in a very neutral voice.

“Sherlock, if you really believe that than android rights are a crock and nobody died when they dropped e-bombs,” John replied irritably.

“But I don’t breathe and love and… you _do_.”

“You do breathe and if you let yourself…”

“I don’t breathe, John, I _mimic_ breathing,” Sherlock replied, his voice still a steady calm, “The rhythmic rise and fall of my chest does nothing but pump fluids through my systems. It’s a combination heart, stomach, and lungs; what I drink goes into the various slots inside me and my ‘breathing’ pumps it to its proper locations, be they oil for joints or imitation semen for my penis. Touch my lips.”

“What, sorry?” John asked in confusion, glancing down at the tea nervously.

“Touch. My. Lips,” Sherlock insisted, his eyebrows furrowing in irritation.

John hesitated a moment and then stood and stepped forward; he leaned over Sherlock and ran his thumb across his lips while gently cupping the side of his face just beneath those high cheekbones. They were soft, lush, full, warm, just a bit moist, and… utterly devoid of breath when Sherlock’s chest rose and fell.

“Breathing is to make me look less alien to you. They utilized that illusion and made it a necessity by putting all my pumping gear in the same location so an otherwise unnecessary function didn’t take up important battery power. I even breathe in sleep mode. Hell, I have a _snore_ function, just in case I’m too quiet for my ‘master’ or ‘mistress’.”

“You haven’t got a master or mistress. You’re your own master now,” John replied, his hand still resting on Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb just beneath his full bottom lip.

“You could have _died_. For _a machine_ ,” Sherlock insisted, his glassy eyes flashing with _something_ that John couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“You’re not just a machine, Sherlock. Not to me,” John straightened up and returned to his seat, sagging down in it and closing his eyes as he rested his head against the back, “I’m so tired. I’ve never been so tired before.”

“It’s the adrenalin drop.”

“Yeah. Happened during the war, too. Fuck, I shouldn’t have thought that. I’m going to end up having nightmares tonight as it is. Now I’ve doubled them.”

“I hate nightmares,” Sherlock replied softly, “That’s why I don’t go into sleep mode unless my systems need to update.”

John lifted his two-ton head and blinked at Sherlock blearily, “You have nightmares?”

“Yes.”

“What do you have nightmares about?”

Sherlock shuddered, “Nothing I care to repeat. You?”

“The war. People getting shot and blown to bits. The sound of women crying. Me being shot. Me dying. Me being helpless to help people who depended on me.”

They were silent a moment and Sherlock simply stared at him, “Dying.”

“You have nightmares about dying?” John asked gently.

“Yes. And other things I won’t discuss because they’re irrelevant.”

“Dying isn’t irrelevant, though?”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I don’t want you to die, Sherlock.”

“Nor I you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t tonight.”

“I’m glad you didn’t either.”

“I’m tired,” John repeated, his head falling back against the chair, “I don’t think I can make it upstairs. I don’t think I want to. I’ll have nightmares.”

“Can you make it to the couch?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, I think.”

“Then do so and I’ll play you to sleep. Perhaps I can keep the nightmares away.”

John swallowed the last of his tea, staggered to the couch, toed off his shoes, collapsed, pulled an afghan over himself, and drifted off to the sound of Brahms Lullaby being played on the violin by an android that was afraid to die but insisted he wasn’t alive.

[CHAPTER EIGHT](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/96654.html)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 8

John awoke to the sound of a faster Mozart piece being played on the violin. He struggled upright and glanced about himself. Sherlock finished the final note and lowered the violin with a nod for greeting.

“I thought that might wake you gently. If not I’d have had to shake you, and I thought you unprepared for that sort of suddenness after what happened last night.”

“What happened?” John asked blearily, and then groaned as he recalled, “Oh, gods, everything hurts.”

“You were sleeping in a functional position on the couch,” Sherlock frowned, “It must be stress induced unless you were injured and did not tell me?”

“No, just tensed up while being held at bomb and gun point. Makes me a bit sore,” John chuckled, “I need the loo. See you in a few.”

Sherlock nodded after John who made his way to the bathroom while groaning in pain. Once locked in the relative privacy of the bathroom he was free to relieve himself and then drag his aching body into the hot shower spray. John leaned into it, moaning in relief as muscles slowly relaxed and the layers of filth from fear-sweat were washed down the drain with cheap body soap and a firm scrubbing from a flannel. When John got to washing his bits he firmed up eagerly and he recalled what Sherlock had said about ‘unsatisfied arousal’. The genius was just outside and knew whenever John masturbated, even if it was done in the relative privacy of his room. Did he dare do it here? Now? While the pratt was in the flat and puttering about?

_I’m doing way too much wanking. Especially while thinking of my flatmate,_ John scolded himself, even as he took up a firm stroke, _I should stop. I should figure out a way to end my growing man-crush on him. It isn’t the slightest bit healthy. Sherlock doesn’t want me or anyone else like that. Sebastian Fucking Wilkes ruined Sherlock for sex. The bastard._

John’s lazy wank was quickly turning into a rage wank as he thought about all the horrid things he’d like to do to the bastard for abusing Sherlock.

_Then I’d show him how good sex can be. They don’t call me Three Continents Watson for nothing! I’d press him down and capture those plush lips and… gods, this sounds like a teen romance novel._

John stamped down his thoughts and focused on the feel of his hand, trying to block out all other thoughts. When he came it was unsatisfying and he was left still hard.

_Great. Now I’m responding like a teenager. Why couldn’t I have been this go-get-em last time Sarah and I were in bed together? Maybe if I ravaged her twice she’d have stuck around despite Sherlock interfering all the time._

John sighed, and toweled off, willing his erection away. When he reached the living room Sherlock gave him a knowing smirk, and then frowned suddenly.

“You’re unsatisfied still,” Sherlock noted, his eyebrows furled as though concerned.

“You remember that conversation we had about appropriate and inappropriate things to point out?”

“Your unsatisfying masturbatory experiences are inappropriate?” Sherlock snorted in amusement.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Noted,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and flopped down into a chair, “We’ve a case. I’ve told them to wait because you haven’t eaten in nearly a day. Will you cook or shall we stop someplace?”

Once John was full of greasy fried foods they took nearly three hours to get to Hull via train. Sherlock had wanted to take a cab the entire way, but John had pointed out the ridiculous cost and that they might not get paid for the case. Sherlock had whinged that he _always_ solved his cases, but they both knew that wasn’t true so John won out in the end. When they arrived John gaped at the sight of a gigantic cruise ship crashed up on the docks. They were completely destroyed and everyone was just standing about staring at them in horror.

“Well, there’s our crime scene: the _Matilda Briggs_ pleasure cruise ship. Shall we?” Sherlock gestured.

First they had to wade through a crowd of Goths and press. Then they spoke to the police first, who informed them that the ship had crashed without a single soul on board despite it having left with over four hundred passengers. That accounted for the Gothic crowd who were chanting ‘Dracula’; most of them were in jest but a few were clearly _very_ serious about the matter. Sherlock found them rather amusing, but John made sure he didn’t taunt them overmuch.

Once they were led on board the ship John found the entire experience far less amusing. The ship creaked and groaned around them. They’d been assured that there was little damage to the ship since it had been going rather slowly, but that didn’t change the horror of the damage done in the form of all those missing people. Sherlock wanted to walk the entire ship from top to bottom, but John insisted they start where they might actually find clues since the vessel was gigantic.

“We’ll never get that done in one day, Sherlock, not even with your manic energy.”

“True, and you’re already too afraid to split up.”

“First off, I’m not afraid, I’m wary. Second of all, don’t suggest we split up. That’s what they do it he horror movies and it never goes right.”

Sherlock snickered and John cracked a grin, feeling some of the tension dissipate. They continued on to the crew-frequented areas starting with the engines and accompanying navigation areas. Sherlock was silent, studying the walls, floors, hacking his way into computers, and otherwise prying into everything. At one point a loud creak alarmed John and he jumped closer to Sherlock, automatically placing a hand on his shoulder as he sat in his chair. Sherlock’s fingers, which had been typing away on his computer, stilled as John tried to figure out how to pass off his action.

“Is… is there any way I can help?”

“Silence would be most helpful.”

“Right, I’ll just go tell the ship to stop creaking, groaning, and generally being fucking terrifying.”

“That would help, thank you,” Sherlock’s mouth quirked up a bit, “Would you feel more comfortable sitting in my lap?”

_Don’t tempt me_.

“Tosser,” John replied, shoving his shoulder a bit and then walking to the side to scope out some other areas, “How many people did they say were on this ship?”

“Four hundred twenty-three including crew, why?”

“This sign here says ‘maximum occupancy four thousand’. That’s a bit higher than four hundred.”

“Quite a bit, yes, it makes one wonder why they bothered setting sail if they didn’t have enough compartments booked to break even.”

“My thoughts exactly,” John nodded, “So what happened to all those people, Sherlock?”

“I have six theories so far.”

“Do any of them include them being found alive?”

“Only four.”

Their study of the ship eventually did result in them splitting up. Once to search cabins on different decks and again when John required food and had to go shout for someone to bring him some since he was _not_ leaving Sherlock alone for long on this creepy boat. Once that was done they sat down while Sherlock did some research on his phone and John ate his food. They’d taken the mess as their base of operations because it felt less personal to John.

“What bothers you about taking someone’s quarters?”

“All their things are in there. Everything. I even ran across a room that had a shower running.”

“Was the towel on the rack?” Sherlock asked, his entire body going still.

John thought a moment, “Yeah, two towels. Shit, the person didn’t even stop to put a towel on! What the fuck happened on this ship? The lifeboats are all accounted for?”

“One is missing.”

“Four hundred people can’t leave on _one_ lifeboat. What about life vests?”

“All accounted for.”

“Damn,” John breathed, “Okay, so what have you got so far? Disease? Poisoning? Terrorism? Mass hallucination?”

“Mass hallucination?” Sherlock questioned, looking up with brows furrowed.

“Well, I was trying to think of what would make four hundred people just stand up and walk off a boat in the middle of the ocean. I talked to coast guard while I was grabbing my supper; they still haven’t found a trace of any of the people from this ship or any sign of what might have happened to them or where they’d gone.”

Sherlock hummed to himself and drew out a folded piece of paper, “I have some additional information here. The logbook show the captain placing a check-in call. All was well as of four days ago. Then there were simply no more logs and no previous entries give cause for concern. The craft was on its lowest propulsion, which is why no one even batted an eye when it came into harbor. It took over an hour before someone realized it wasn’t angled properly to dock. They tried to hail it, but to no avail. Then it simply grounded itself, drowning it’s own engines and destroying half the dock in the process. They boarded it and found it as you and I have; a ghost ship.”

“Creepier and creepier. You can tell me your theories at any point now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smirked, “This really does creep you out, doesn’t it?”

“A bit, yeah, but mostly because I’m more than a bit worried that whatever happened to the crew is going to happen to us as well.”

“Why?”

“You really have to ask that? Let’s just say my theory is backed up by substantial evidence.”

Sherlock smirked, “Are you tired?”

“A bit, yeah, why? Are we going to sleep on here?”

“I was planning on it, yes, but I don’t want us both sleeping at the same time. I need one of us observing at all times. Anything might provide a clue. Do you think you could hold off sleeping for a few hours? I only need three hours to run the diagnostics and updates I need for tonight. It will also further our research as I can simultaneously run a few searches on the passengers. With any luck I’ll find their Facebook pages and online blogs and get a bit more of an idea of what happened here.”

“Sounds good to me, just let me finish this tea and I’ll be good for a bit.”

John had never seen Sherlock sleep before. They found a cabin that hadn’t been occupied during the last cruise, dusted it and found fresh linens, and Sherlock laid down on his back with his hands folded over his sternum. He closed his eyes as John plugged in his charging cable to a nearby outlet. John heard an odd whirring noise, and then Sherlock suddenly went limp. That in itself was odd as when he ran out of batteries his body was slightly stiff, though still movable. Now he was breathing regularly and his eyes were moving behind his eyelids.

John’s curiosity won out and he leaned forward and touched Sherlock’s eyelid. It felt like real skin, of course, but lacked the moist oily feel that real skin generally had. Sherlock’s face twitched when he touched him, but he didn’t otherwise stir. John settled back in a corner where he could watch both the door and Sherlock. It was about two hours into his watch that Sherlock’s breathing suddenly increased. John looked out of concern that Sherlock was having a nightmare… until he saw his trousers tenting. John’s eyes widened in alarm and he felt his own member stir at the sight.

_Oh, no. Oh, no. I should leave. I should definitely leave._

Just as quickly as it started Sherlock’s entire body shuddered and the erection started to dissipate. For a moment John snickered, thinking that the glorious pleasure bot was a minuteman, but then he saw the face twisted in distress. Sherlock shivered again, his hand jerked, and then both arms were thrown in front of his face as he let out a cry of horror and pain. John was out of his seat in an instant, shaking Sherlock awake, but nothing worked. Sherlock fought him off, but was shouting for him in his sleep.

“Keep him away from me! Mycroft! John! Lestrade! Someone! Help! Please! I’ll behave! I’LL BEHAVE!”

“Sherlock, wake up! Please! Sherlock! He can’t hurt you! I won’t let him! SHERLOCK!”

John gathered the android up in his arms, holding him tightly to prevent his thrashing. His cord had come undone from the wall, but the last thing John was concerned with was his battery charging. If anything he wanted to rip it out- perhaps without it in Sherlock would stop dreaming. The man became still then, going limp against John’s body, and he rocked him gently for the next forty minutes, petting his hair and holding him tightly. When John saw the clock ticking closer to the third hour he lowered Sherlock to the bed and put him in his previous position, slipping his charging cable back in behind his left ear just above his designation and bar code. Then John sat himself down in his chair once more and tried to look as though he’d been bored and close to falling asleep.

Sherlock didn’t come awake like a person; he simply opened his eyes and sat up as though he’d never been asleep in the first place. He looked over at John, who yawned and stretched, and then stood up abruptly.

“You touched me while I slept,” Sherlock stated, his tone accusatory.

“I wanted to see what your eyelid felt like,” John admitted, “Sorry.”

“You touched more than my eye,” Sherlock replied, “Your scent is all over me.”

John winced, “You had a nightmare. I tried to wake you up, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to embarrass you so I laid you back down.”

Sherlock studied him quietly for a moment and then nodded, “I can’t be awoken once I put myself in sleep mode. It’s a program that has to run its course.”

“Then… is there a way to give me some sort of code or word or something that can bring you out of it?” John asked, letting his distress show on his face, “I hated seeing you like that. At least I can wake up from my nightmares. You were… I don’t want to see you like that again.”

“I’ll make sure not to sleep around you again.”

“Not good enough.”

Sherlock was silent a moment, then he nodded his head, “Mycroft developed a fail-safe code that would wake me up, but it disrupts everything that is being done and could prove harmful. You must only use it if my li- _existence_ is in danger. You must press firmly on the palm of my left hand- there are sensors in my hands- and speak the code word ‘Daydream’.”

Sherlock held his hand out and pressed John’s thumb into the appropriate spot.

“Only if your life is in danger. Got it. What about the nightmares?”

“They’re just dreams, John. They’re harmless,” Sherlock huffed.

_Not to me_. “I’d like to kill Sebastian Wilkes.”

“He’s not your problem.”

“He’s becoming one. I don’t like what he did to you.”

“You have no idea what he did to me.”

“I know he hurt you. That’s enough.”

Sherlock studied John for a moment again with unfathomable eyes, and then he nodded his head as though he’d just figured something out.

“I think I understand, John. It’s much how I felt when Moriarty threatened you.”

John nodded.

“Then I will contrive to keep you apart from him lest you land yourself in jail,” Sherlock smirked, “Now, would you like to know what I’ve figured out?”

“Actually, I’m beat,” John sighed, “Have you solved the case, or just found more out?”

Sherlock sulked, “I’m _close_ to solving the case.”

“Then if it’s all the same to you, I’ll have a lie down.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whinged, “I want to do this _now_.”

“You’ve had your sleep. I haven’t. Fragile human, remember? Night Tinman.”

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock sighed, sitting himself down to play with his phone.

Sherlock woke John an hour later by shaking him violently.

“I’ve done it! I’ve solved the case!”

“Tha’s great. Night,” John grunted, rolling over.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whinged, “Wake _up!_ You’re supposed to tell me how brilliant I am!”

“Brillant. Prefectly brillant. S’beautiful.”

“John! They may still be alive!”

John jarred himself awake and looked up at Sherlock in confusion, blinking his eyes sleepily. He was just in time to see someone raise a pipe over Sherlock’s head.

 

<http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/30amay>   
  


[CHAPTER NINE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/96865.html)

 


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 9

John reacted purely on instinct. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and dragged him to one side while raising the other hand to grab the pipe and ward off the blow. Once Sherlock realized they were under attack his own instincts kicked in and he twisted around and out of John’s grip to punched the assailant squarely in the jaw. She went down like a sack of potatoes.

“Who the hell is she and why did she just attack us?” John demanded, deciding Sherlock already knew.

“Matilda Briggs, owner of this particular cruise ship. The franchise, Lola Cruises, has listed her amongst the missing, but I noticed activity on her blog after the four-day gap. It was subtle, of course, she’d merely deleted things rather than posting anything, but there was an electronic trail.”

While Sherlock was stating all of this, John had pulled a tie off from his pocket (it was a mark of their lives that he’d taken to carrying them around) and secured her wrists in front of her. She wasn’t long coming back around, and once she did the look of fear on her face was alarming.

“Please don’t hurt me! I won’t tell anyone! I swear!”

“Tell anyone what?” John replied automatically.

“You… you aren’t with _them?_ ” The woman asked, looking relieved.

“You’re a bit late, Ms. Briggs. We’re already aware of your involvement in the disappearance of the crew and passengers,” Sherlock stated boldly.

“He doesn’t seem aware of much,” Matilda Briggs replied, narrowing her eyes at John.

Sherlock gave John a scolding look and the doctor winced, “He usually isn’t.”

“Sherlock knows everything,” John sighed, “Trust me on that. He always does.”

“How? No one knows what I’ve been through these last four days. It’s been a nightmare!”

“Oh, I believe you, Ms. Briggs. I do,” Sherlock nodded, “But that does not reduce your culpability.”

“I had no choice!”

“That doesn’t change the fact that _you_ are alive and that part or all of the people you were responsible for are dead!”

“I had no idea it would go this far!”

“What exactly happened?” John asked.

“Sorry, John,” Sherlock frowned at him, “You slept through the big reveal, you’re going to have to wait until the trial like everyone else.”

It clicked, then. Sherlock had no idea. He was bluffing. He must have known the woman was in the hall and had told John he’d solved the case so she would reveal herself. That explained his insistence the door stay open last night.

“I hate it when you do that,” John stated, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock to impart his real message: _You need to keep me in the loop when you do something dangerous._

“Don’t be childish, John,” Sherlock scolded back, but his eyes had turned suddenly expressive and his message was clear: _Be quiet and let me lead._

John sat back to pretend to sulk while watching Sherlock get the woman’s wind up.

“It’s all so utterly obvious,” Sherlock stated, “You did it for the money, of course.”

“No! I never did! I swear! I didn’t even want to be a part of this!”

“Please, do you really think a jury will believe that? You’ve blood on your hands, Ms. Briggs!”

“They were only supposed to be drugged! They were meant to sleep through the cruise and the crash!”

“Yes, but you were double crossed,” Sherlock sneered, “Of course, a good lawyer will have no trouble proving you just didn’t want to see the truth so you could claim innocence later!”

“No! I had no idea! I didn’t even know there were guns on board!”

John’s hackles raised at the word ‘gun’. If the people who had done this were still on board, had somehow evaded John, Sherlock, and the police when they’d searched the ship, then they could all be in serious danger.

“Sherlock…” John started in concern, but he waved him off. 

“You looked the other way! Are you a criminal, a madwoman, or just plain stupid? Answer me!!”

“I had no idea! I just wanted the insurance money! I can barely book one cruise a year; nobody wants to leave from this port!”

“SHERLOCK!” John shouted.

“WHAT?!” Sherlock shouted back.

John nodded towards the entrance to their cabin where a man in a gas mask was pointing a gun at them.

“Oh, gods, we’re all dead,” Matilda whispered.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John woke up shaking with cold and with a dull ache in his head. For a moment he thought he hadn’t opened his eyes, but then he realized there simply wasn’t any light. Not a single speck. He was in too much discomfort to try the obligatory wave in front of his eyes, but he imagined he wouldn’t see anything. John started to analyze his aches and pains. He felt hung over; he had cottonmouth, a headache, a full bladder, and a roiling stomach. He was freezing cold- enough to shake violently- and his clothes were damp. He was resting on several sharp and pointy things as though lying on rocks or glass, but his head was pillowed on something soft.

“John?” A deep voice whispered, and a hand dragged through his hair, “You’re breathing rate has changed, are you awake?”

“Yeah,” John whispered back, but before he could ask what had happened it all came rushing back.

_The gunman had dropped what looked like an aerosol can into the room and slammed the door shut. Sherlock had rushed forward and attempted to wrench it open, but to no avail. He’d begun picking the lock, which he announced was jammed, while Matilda and John crowded to the edges of the room and gulped in clean air while they could. The can was hissing and spraying out cloudy gas from four holes. John was holding his breath when Matilda slumped to the floor beside him; she was conscious but looked confused and grinned at him as she drooled and giggled a bit._

_Sherlock got the door open, but he did so in time to have the gunman- or another dressed like him- burst through the door. They fought, kicking the can around the room, and John bolted for the hallway in the hopes of getting air. He had expected to find other gunmen there, and had his hands up in the hopes they’d try hand-to-hand before simply shooting, but he hadn’t expected them to flood the hall with more gas. John gulped in a lungful of the hazy air and had a moment to curse himself before an equally hazy feeling settled over his head. He slouched against a wall and giggled at the fact the men around him were wearing gas masks._

_“Are you my mummy?” He asked one of them. The person laughed at him and John laughed back, but he sobered a bit when Sherlock was tossed to the ground in front of him in a heap._

_“John?” Sherlock asked with his hands restrained with cuffs._

_“We’re all going to grow gas masks on our faces, Sherlock,” John informed Sherlock in all seriousness._

_Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together, “That would be not only ludicrous but also quite physically impossible.”_

_“You’re fantastic!” John replied._

_They dragged Sherlock to his feet and frog marched him to the top of the ship. John followed along, giggling and being prodded in the back with the barrel of a gun._

_“Hey! Watch where you put that! My arse is still virginal,” John laughed, “I’m saving it for_ him _.”_

_“A charming sentiment, John. I hope we get the chance,” Sherlock replied, “Perhaps if you hyperventilate on this clean sea air you will restore some of your faculties.”_

_John thought that sounded like good fun so he attempted it as they herded them towards the edge of the boat._

_“What have you done with the police and reporters?” Sherlock asked, “Are they gassed as well? Or dead?”_

_“No talking,” One of the gunmen ordered, and shoved Sherlock over the edge of the boat._

_Whether it was the air he was gulping or the sight of Sherlock falling into the starless blackness below, John quite suddenly came to himself and shouted his flatmates name._

_“Sherlock did he say?” One of the men questioned._

_“Doesn’t matter. Over with them all.”_

_John was herded to the edge and he and Ms. Briggs were shoved into the dark water below. John took another gulp of air on his way down and held his breath as he dropped like a stone. He knew his only shot was to swim as far away from the gunmen as possible before surfacing for air. He also knew, with a heavy heart, that he couldn’t save Matilda Briggs. Between the gas, her hands being tied, and his own need for air there was simply no way to wrestle her to safety; she would likely drown before he was able to safely get to the surface. John was just starting to kick his way around the gigantic boat when a hand grabbed his ankle and dragged him down._

_John fought, but it was no use- the grip was extraordinary. After only a moment he gave up, knowing he’d use up more oxygen fighting, he would just have to hope he could last. He realized suddenly that he was being pulled in one specific direction, but what that did for him he had no idea. John was just starting to see starbursts from his lack of oxygen when he was tugged parallel with whoever was dragging him along the bottom of the ocean. Full, firm lips connected with his own and John went limp. There was no way he wouldn’t know those lips even if he’d never touched them with his own until now. A tongue pried against his mouth and John opened it, releasing the stale air from his lungs as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. Fresh air rushed in from Sherlock’s mouth and he held it greedily inside of himself. Their pace resumed, but now with John’s hand gripped instead of his ankle, so he was able to kick his feet and add to their progress. He gripped Sherlock’s shirt with his free hand and their speed increased as Sherlock released his hand and used both his hands to aid in their swim._

_It wasn’t long before John needed oxygen again, but there was no hope for it. Whatever store Sherlock had managed to seal in his mouth before they dropped into the water was depleted and wherever he was taking them was simply too far off for John to survive the trip. The last of the air bubbled out of his lungs and blackness darker than the water around him swam in to consume him. John’s last thought was that he had at least been able to kiss the man he loved before he died._

“How did I make it? I distinctly remember drowning,” John croaked, his throat sore.

“You did nothing of the sort,” Sherlock snorted, “You blacked out just as I got us here and I managed to pull you up before you breathed in the North Sea. Good thing, too, as I’m not capable of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. We’ll have to make allowances for that in the future. Perhaps one of those manual…”

“Sherlock, where are we?” John cut him off.

“A sea cave. When I fell into the water I sent out a sonic burst and this location echoed back to me. I knew it would be safe from our assailants. I’m afraid it is highly unlikely that any of the _other_ passengers had that option available to them.”

“So they’re all dead?” John asked, avoiding the ‘Sherlock’s a dolphin’ thought revolving in his still-dazed mind.

“Including Ms. Briggs I’m afraid, though the entire crew is not dead. You see it was the crew that gassed the passengers. The original intent appears to have been to have them unconscious and in their beds when the ship crashed so that there would be fewer injuries. They would then collect the insurance money and life would go on. However, a mutiny aboard the ship caused the plan to backfire. Instead of gassing the ships passengers to unconsciousness and driving the boat onto a rock, they gassed them, herded them over the edge to their deaths, and turned about to head for dock. Ready for the shocking part? It appears we have a group of serial killers all operating on the same boat.”

“That’s… mad.”

“Precisely. I looked up the history of the Matilda Brigg while I was in sleep mode. It seems that the real reason Ms. Briggs couldn’t fill her ship were the horrific rumors. There wasn’t a single time that they left port that one or more passengers didn’t go missing. Usually they were people who were unconnected to anyone, so it wasn’t until several had vanished that the police cottoned on and noticed the pattern, but it was there for anyone to analyze. A thorough investigation occurred, but Ms. Briggs was squeaky clean and they found no other evidence. Eventually a theory emerged that people were simply hooking up with lovers at other destinations and staying there. Without bodies to prove otherwise, the case was dropped. Now we get to the fun part, the part where I am forced to speculate a bit, but there is some clear pattern here based on previous cases from which I may draw a foundation upon which to theorize.”

“Sherlock, I’m cold.”

“Come closer, then, I’m quite warm.”

John dragged himself upright and pressed against Sherlock, straddling his thighs and sighing in relief as the ‘quite warm’ android draped his coat over John’s soggy shoulders and then wrapped his arms around him. John tucked his face into the bot’s neck and breathed in, but the scent was plastic without Sherlock’s usual cologne to spice it up.

“Now then, where was I? Ah, yes. They wanted to be caught.”

“Mmm,” John acknowledged, having come to that conclusion himself for once.

“Yes, a bit obvious, isn’t it? Still, that would be what all the signs point to. Ms. Briggs had gotten quite a bit of attention because of the matter and here were our otherwise _brilliant_ murderers, all drifting about in anonymity. So what better way to make themselves famous than to kill off an entire ship in utterly secretive ways?”

“How did they hide from us on the boat? I get how Ms. Briggs hid, it’s her boat she probably knows it like the back of her hand, but what about the rest?”

“They didn’t. They were beneath it.”

“A secret compartment?”

“Scuba gear: that is what was concealed in the missing life boat along with the machine guns. They then swam under the dock when the ship crashed and were able to wait quite cozily until the reporters and fans left, and the graveyard shift arrived and they simply knocked them out- or more likely killed them- and came aboard to deal with us. They likely couldn’t pass up the opportunity to kill off a few more people in their favored method- serial killers are notorious for following a method- and of course Ms. Briggs had escaped them the first time around and simply couldn’t be allowed to live.”

“Brilliant,” John whispered into his curls, “Simply brilliant as always. Have you thought of how to get us out of here alive? What am I saying, of course you have. When? I’m freezing still.”

Sherlock was silent a moment, his hands rubbing John’s arms to warm them, “You’re aroused again. It’s quite distracting.”

“Sorry. Can’t help it. I get these weird stress boners. It’s pretty distracting for me, too.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed a pattern. I believe you have a psychological reaction to danger passing. A sort of survival kink which explains your addiction to danger.”

John chuckled, “Yeah, that makes sense. About leaving? And maybe getting a nice hot cuppa after that?”

“I could swim you out again, but I have a great deal of concern that I won’t be able to reach the surface before you require more air than I am able to store in my oral cavity.”

“That’s a pretty big concern.”

“I did call it ‘a great deal of concern’ for a reason.”

“What other options do we have?”

“I can leave you here alone and get help, but I didn’t want to do so without you waking up first. I had a thought that you might panic if you woke up here alone and unsure of either my fate or your own placement. Was I wrong?”

“No, I’d have flipped shit.”

“Hm, good, then my choice was the correct one. I’ll take my leave now and return with help at the earliest,” Sherlock stated, for all the world sounding as if he were heading out to a lunch meeting.

“Laters,” John replied as he crawled off the androids lap.

Sherlock left without another word, splashing into the water, and John curled up in his jacket and shook with cold.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John tried to stay awake, he really did. He knew that being so utterly cold and having survived an ordeal like that could mean shock settling in quickly, but he was exhausted and it wasn’t long before he drifted off. When he awoke again he was being manhandled with a mask over his face. John struggled a moment but was restrained on what felt like a board.

“Hold still, John,” Sherlock’s voice reached him, “We’re about to take you back into the water. You’ve a mask on this time so you’ll be safe.”

The restraints were tightened once more and John was relieved to feel Sherlock’s hand touch his face again, the familiar scent of plastic reaching his nose. Men were moving about with headlamps on, but none of them were looking John’s way just yet.

“Did you catch them?” John asked, his voice sounding odd through the mask.

“The killers?”

“Yeah.”

“I haven’t mentioned them to anyone.”

“But… the killers!” John replied in alarm.

Someone’s headlamp swiveled towards John and Sherlock and John’s breath caught at the concerned look on Sherlock’s face.

“You’re more important,” Sherlock replied, touching his face gently again.

The light was gone and John was left speechless and blind.

[CHAPTER TEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/97184.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 10

Sherlock was avoiding John, and it turned out it was yet another thing he absolutely excelled at. In fact, he was avoiding him to the point that John hadn’t seen him since he was released from the A&E after his nasty scrape with death during Tilly Brigg’s Cruise of Terror (which he was being threatened to keep quiet about while the cruise owners tried to salvage their reputation). With three out of the four serial killers behind bars, John had at first thought the bot was simply hunting down the fourth, until he’d gotten a call from Lestrade asking John to keep Sherlock away from parks.

“He’s creeping people out, John.”

“What’s he doing?” John asked in confusion.

“Just sitting at the parks staring at the kids while they play. I’ve gotten six complaints in the last two days. They had to bring him in and question him. _Officially_. John, if they even _think_ a pleasure bot is a nonce they’re going to shut him down. Rights haven’t come far enough to give him a _fair_ trial, you know?”

“I’ll find him and get him sorted,” John promised, shoving his feet into shoes, “Why _is_ he watching kids at parks?”

“He claimed it was research. I told him to cut it out, but he’s down there again.”

“Right, which park?”

XXXXXXXXXX

John hopped out of the cab and headed for the bench where Sherlock was seated watching the children play. He dropped down beside him and waited for the enigmatic consulting detective to make the first move. He didn’t say a word, and a beat cop was starting their way. That was when it clicked and John smiled slowly.

“Do you want me to push you?”

“Push me?” Sherlock asked.

“On the swing. Or the merry-go-round. That’s open, too.”

“We’ll be kicked out.”

“We’re about to be kicked out anyway, might as well have a bit of fun first.”

Sherlock hesitated and then bolted for the merry-go-round. John followed him in a hurry and grabbed a spoke to begin pushing him. He had it going at a quick pace soon enough and Sherlock was laughing up a storm. The beat cop stood beside them a moment just staring and then tapped John on the shoulder.

“Yes, sir?”

“You want to tell me why you think this is okay, mate?”

“Look, he’s an android. Technically he’s seven years old. He never got to play like this. He’s not interested in the kids, if that’s what you or anyone else thinks. He just wants to have a bit of fun. I’ll make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble or accidentally hurt anyone. No one was using the merry-go-round anyway.”

“He looks awfully pretty for an android,” The copper stated with narrowed eyes.

“Sorry, he’s taken,” John replied stiffly.

Sherlock hopped off the merry-go-round and came up to them both.

He grabbed John’s arm and shook it gently, “Swing, John! Now!”

“Excuse me, officer,” John nodded.

Sherlock was thrilled to have John ‘play’ with him, and soon the other children got curious despite their parent’s warning them away. It wasn’t long before the monkey bars were designated a pirate ship with Sherlock as captain, and John was leading a group of privateers on the merry-go-round to stop the evil yellow bellied scoundrels. An hour later John and Sherlock headed home, John yawning in exhaustion while Sherlock smiled softly to himself.

“Thank you for this,” Sherlock stated quietly.

“Sure,” John yawned again, “Next time just ask me instead of avoiding me, eh?”

John elbowed Sherlock playfully, but he gave John an anxious look and glanced away.

“That wasn’t why you were avoiding me, was it?” John asked, worried.

“No.”

“Why then?”

“It’s not important.”

“It clearly is if you were avoiding me for three days straight.”

Sherlock sighed, “Leave it, John.”

“But…”

“Leave. It.”

John nodded and let the subject drop, but his sleep that night was uneasy and it had nothing to do with the sad music wafting up from downstairs.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Sit down, John,” Lestrade sighed as John walked into his office. Then the man walked around and shut the door.

“I feel like I’ve been called into the headmasters office,” John joked, but Lestrade sat down with a rather serious look on his face, “What’s happened? Is Sherlock okay?”

“He’s fine… well, he’s as okay as he gets. I take it he’s still avoiding you?”

“Yeah, but he won’t say why.”

“I expected not. He dropped me a few hints, though. My first reaction was to kick your arse, but then I thought maybe you didn’t know the… _details_ … of his last owner before Mycroft.”

“I know enough to know the man should be strung up by his bollocks,” John scowled, “But what’s that got to do with Sherlock avoiding me?”

“You know he’s a pleasure bot?”

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

“You know pleasure bots are programmed to be able to tell whenever someone is even the least bit aroused?”

John grimaced, “I noticed him mentioning it. Bit embarrassing, really.”

“So you understand what the problem is then?” Lestrade asked in his best detective inspector voice.

“Sure… no… not really.”

“John, he knows you’re attracted to him. He’s scared,” Lestrade replied softly.

John paled, “I’m not… He doesn’t have to… I’d _never_ …”

“I certainly hope not, but he’s still freaking out. He’s sure it’s only a matter of time before you ask him to put out for you and he told me he doesn’t think he can say no. That’s the problem with pleasure bots: they’re programmed to _never_ refuse sex. Sherlock and all the other sentient androids out there have come a long way towards having free will and independent thought, but each one usually has a specific weakness. For Sherlock, that’s it. Why do you think he’s such a bastard to everyone? He knows if they hate him within a few seconds of meeting him that they won’t ask him to go to bed with them.”

John sat there stewing in a mess of horror and guilt, trying desperately to reconcile what he’d just been told with the life he’d been enjoying for the last several months. He couldn’t.

“I have to move, don’t I?” John asked miserably, “He wants you to ask me to leave.”

“He hasn’t said that, no,” Lestrade sighed, “But it might be for the best.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

John headed home with a heavy heart, but pulled his phone out long before he reached the flat and texted Sherlock to let him know what was going on.

**I’m going to pack a bag and go to Harry’s until I can find someplace else to live. I’d like to say goodbye if you can manage it. No pressure if you don’t want to see me. I’ll be home in 10 minutes either way. JW**

**What are you going on about? Why are you moving? – SH**

**Lestrade told me how I was making you uncomfortable. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I never meant to. I honestly don’t see you like that. Not like a sex toy, at least. - JW**

John waffled back and forth about whether or not to send that text before finally doing so. He’d rather have apologized in person, but he wasn’t certain Sherlock would want to see him at all and he didn’t want to leave anything unsaid. He had no intention of contacting him once he moved out again. He knew full well he couldn’t control his reactions around Sherlock, so he would make a clean break of it. Somehow, this felt much worse than all the breakups he’d had with women since he’d returned to London.

John’s phone pinged and he picked it up with a slow exhale, ready to face the music.

**He had no right to discuss that with you. Come home at once. Do not leave until I get there. – SH**

John swallowed his worry down and hurried back to Baker Street. He rather hoped it wasn’t for the last time.

XXXXXXXXX

Sherlock didn’t return until midnight, and when he did he was in a foul mood. He threw himself down on the couch after shedding his coat and curled up in a petulant ball. John waited for several minutes and then decided tea was in order. He went into the kitchen and made it, grabbing a few biscuits as well. Sherlock might not _need_ to eat, but he did enjoy the taste of chocolate digestives. On a whim he poured Sherlock a glass of motor oil as well, though he wasn’t at all sure the bot was low.

John moved a kitchen chair over beside the couch and put the tray down with his choices.

“I made some tea, Sherlock, and a glass of oil for you if you need it. I’ve biscuits as well.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment and then squirmed a bit, “I understand human moods are lifted by chocolate and hot beverages.”

“Yes, they are. It’s also a social thing. We do it to comfort each other or give our hands something to do while having awkward discussions.”

“We are not going to have an awkward discussion and I do not need _comfort._ ”

“I’d never ask you to do anything with me, Sherlock.”

“Do you listen to _anything_ I say that isn’t case related?” Sherlock asked, rolling over in a huff and sitting up to glare at John.

“We have to discuss this, Sherlock. It’s important. It’s either that or I move.”

“I am fully aware of _why_ you become aroused, John. I realize it’s psychological and is only reflected on me because I’m providing you with your danger fix.”

“Okay. That’s good. Makes me more comfortable especially considering I don’t consider myself gay.”

“Right. Fine. That’s settled then,” Sherlock huffed, picking up the tea and sipping it while decidedly avoiding John’s eyes.

“It really isn’t. Not if you still can’t look at me. How are we to live together like this?”

“How should I know?!” Sherlock snapped, dropping the teacup onto the floor where it rolled about emptying its contents. He stood up to pace the room, “I don’t know how to deal with these things, John. It’s never come up before. Most people are repelled by me.”

“Because you make sure of it,” John laughed, “But I’m an army man; we live on insults. Gives us something to do besides kill and die.”

Sherlock paused, giving John an uncertain look; “No one has ever liked me for me before.”

“Well, I do,” John shrugged, “I think you’re brilliant.”

“You do, don’t you?” Sherlock wondered.

“I don’t expect anything, Sherlock. I really don’t. I’ve got a girlfriend right now anyway.”

“Yes, I noticed you had a date yesterday. Your shoes.”

“Right,” John rolled his eyes, “My shoes. Anyway, her name is Jeanette and she’s a teacher.”

“Dull.”

“Yes, well I’ve enough excitement in my life. Or I had,” John sighed.

“You’re not moving. I won’t stand for it,” Sherlock stated, taking up the oil and gulping it down in a few swallows.

“Okay,” John agreed, sipping his tea. He’d never been so grateful for something to hold in his life.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock’s lips pressed to John’s, hard and hungry as the bot pushed him against the stairwell wall. John moaned into his mouth, his voice filled with need as his cock swelled with blood. John gave Sherlock’s bottom lip a nip and the bot moaned so deeply that John felt it vibrate between their tightly pressed bodies. They staggered upstairs, stripping as they went and leaving a trail of clothing that Mrs. Hudson was sure to comment on. Once inside they collapsed onto the couch as the nearest piece of horizontal furniture. John ended up sprawled between Sherlock’s bare thighs, their erections rubbing together and causing them each to gasp in excitement.

“I’m going to fuck you so _hard!_ ” John growled.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, eyes rolling back in his head as Sherlock took both their cocks in hand and stroked them, “I can’t last! It’s been so long!”

“I’m going to make you come so hard, Sherlock. Can you do it more than once? Can you come for me over and again like a woman?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m capable of multiple orgasms as long as _OH!_ ”

John groaned as Sherlock came hard between them and scooped up his spunk to use as lubricant, but as he moved his hand lower to press it between Sherlock’s full, round arsecheeks he glanced down and saw the substance on his hand was brown and greasy.

“What’s this, then?”

“Motor oil,” Sherlock explained, “My semen reserves are empty so my body compensated in order to meet your demands.”

“Don’t you need motor oil to…” John lifted his head to look Sherlock in the face and found him frozen as he had been at the Yard. His face had marker scribbled over it, but instead of a mustache and beard they were words.

**WHORE**

**SLUT**

**FILTH**

**PONCE**

**SLAG**

When John looked back down again he was inside of Sherlock and taking him fast and hard, but the android was unable to respond in any way. He simply laid there, his joints frozen while his eyes silently pleaded for John to stop. A brown tear rolled down his cheek, leaving a greasy trail as the oil slid down to drip into his beautiful curls right beside where John’s hand was tangled.

John woke up with a strangled cry, his cock emptying into his trousers as he gripped the edge of the sofa. From the kitchen he heard Sherlock drop something glass, swear, and then bolt for his bedroom. John groaned in misery, rubbing his hand over his face, and went to clean himself up. He didn’t want to smell like semen when he tried to consol his flatmate after having a wet dream on the couch a mere hour after promising him he wasn’t going to sexually assault him. He just hoped he hadn’t talked in his sleep.

John banged on Sherlock’s door.

“No talking! No tea! No chocolate digestives!”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock! I’m human, okay? I’ve got needs and right now they aren’t being met,” Silence from within and John played that sentence over in his head and swore, “I’m not asking you to meet them!”

“I don’t want to talk about it! Sex is disgusting! What you just did is disgusting!”

“Sherlock, I would never, ever hurt you. Never. Not like that or any other way. Can you trust me, Sherlock? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I swear to you it’s the truth. I’ll do anything you ask to prove it, just don’t ask me to stop being human because I can’t.”

There was more silence and then the door opened and Sherlock stood there looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“I don’t want to be treated like a damsel in distress,” Sherlock informed him.

“I don’t want to think of you like that. It’s too weird. Brings to mind corsets and ten feet of blonde hair.”

Sherlock blinked in confusion and then grinned. John joined him and they laughed a moment.

“Come out?” John coaxed, “I’m sure to be less _enthusiastic_ for the rest of the night.”

“Yes, about that. Perhaps if you went back to masturbating each morning when you woke up?”

“I thought me doing that bothered you?” John asked.

“It’s a good deal better than _this_.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll take care of it in my room then we can go back to the way things were.”

Sherlock nodded agreement and brushed past John to clean up the mess of his experiment from the floor.

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/97384.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 11

“Well there are three possibilities,” Sherlock informed the room, “The KRATIDES may actually be a real group of super heroes-“

“Sherlock, don’t be cruel. Please?” John pleaded, giving the anxious twenty-something client a worried look.

“Charles here-“

“Chris,” John and Chris both corrected.

“Right. Chris here could be suffering from psychological delusions.”

“I have a _picture_. How do you explain that? You can see it, can’t you?” Chris held out a shaky hand and John accepted the picture when Sherlock ignored him completely.

“Yes, that man is definitely… blue,” John agreed nervously, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock’s pacing form.

“Third,” Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “Someone is putting on a show purely for Chris’ benefit.”

“That’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?” Chris asked.

“But super heroes with powers walking about London isn’t?” John asked as neutrally as he could.

“Well, it’s just that I’m not special,” Chris countered, flushing a bit, “I mean, I could understand if it was someone like one of you, but I’m a nobody.”

“Yes, which begs the question why someone would put on a show for _you_ ,” Sherlock wondered, sitting down in his chair and pressing his fingers to his lips in a prayer position as he contemplated the situation.

“He doesn’t mean that,” John sighed, “That you’re a nobody, I mean. The part about someone putting on a show… well… I mean, they can’t be _real_ and you do have a picture, so…”

“Well, why can’t they be real?” Chris argued hopefully, “Stranger things have happened. What about Baskerville?”

“What’s Baskerv- you know, never mind,” John sighed, “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Are we taking the case?”

“What? Yes, of course. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. John, go down to the comic book shop and buy every edition of KRATIDES they have available.”

“What me? Why me?” John asked in frustration.

“Because you’re unemployed now Sarah’s dumped and fired you,” Sherlock replied.

“Rub that in, why don’t you,” John sighed.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Chris broke in with a grin, “I’m single, too.”

_Why am I not shocked?_ John wondered.

“Bring them all back here and you and Shaun here-“

“Chris.”

“ _Fine_ \- Chris. You and Chris will go through them and locate all the scenes for me. We’ll need to inspect each one.”

“That’s great,” Chris replied, jumping to his feet and holding out his hand to Sherlock, “Thank you Mr. Holmes, thank you so much. There’s just one thing...”

John sighed, _This is the part where he says he can’t pay us._

“That would be?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow and ignoring the extended hand.

Chris slowly drew his hand back, his smile faltering in the face of the androids callous demeanor, “Well, it’s just that you called them comic books, but they’re not. They’re _graphic novels_. There’s a distinction, you see. A comic book is a magazine devoted to comic strips, whereas a graphic novel is a novel in comic-strip format. Much more respectable, you see?”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose impossibly higher and he did that slight jerk to one side. He replied in his deepest voice: “Duly noted.”

“Right. Thanks,” Chris replied, bobbing his head and backing up while wiping his hands on his jeans. He looked flushed and embarrassed; “I’ll just… take Dr. Watson over to the comic book store then.”

“Where they sell graphic novels,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Yeah, those,” Chris agreed, and nearly tripped over his feat to get out the door.

“You didn’t have to intimidate him,” John scolded, smirking a bit.

“ _Graphic novels,_ John,” Sherlock breathed in frustration.

“It’s a sort of culture. You should respect it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John snickered and shut the door between them before he could make a bigger fuss.

“They’re not just stories, you know,” Chris explains as they thumb through a long row of bagged and boarded comic books, “They’ve got _values_ in them.”

“Mmm, like don’t litter and share your toys?” John wondered, trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt.

“Well, there’s that, but then there’s the more _subtle_ stuff.”

“Subtle?” John asks, his ears perking up. This might actually be important.

“Yeah, see the heroes all look like villains and the villains all look like heroes.”

“Come again?”

“The heroes are Sophy the Wolflady, Professor Davenport (he’s the bloke with the blue skin in the photograph) The Flying Bludgeon (he’s a as fat as they come) and Latimer the Mummy. They don’t sound like the descriptions you’d normally find for heroes, do they?”

“No, not really.”

“Then there are the villains. They’re all really attractive male and female Japanese ninjas- all drawn anime style; normally all geeks trip over themselves about ninjas.”

“Non-geeks, too,” John nodded sagely.

“They follow the laws of the Samurai, which is a bit mixed up, but the feudal lord they follow is…”

“Well, I think that’s all of them,” John interrupted, hefting his stack and heading for the register.

The price was astronomical, but John coughed it up and they headed out.

“This is fantastic!” Chris beamed, “I mean, I never thought I’d get to read some of these. They’re so hard to find.”

“That explains why we had to go to three different comic book stores,” John sighed.

“You’re just lucky I have all the rest. You only had to buy a dozen, I’ve got two hundred fifty-two copies at home… although to be fair I have doubles of the really good ones.”

“Why in god’s name, why?”

“Can I buy those off you once you solve the case? I mean… once I save up again, that is. Paying you and Mr. Holmes is going to strap me for quid for a bit.”

“Yeah, sure,” John sighed, heading for the tube since he was also ‘strapped for quid’ at the moment.

“Fantastic! I… hey look!” Chris pointed out a nearby park eagerly, “That’s where Sophie finds a buried talisman in the ground which leads her to a ring of underground…”

John hurried after the eager geek; his bag of comics stuffed under one arm weighing him down. By the time he reached the park the lad had his phone out and was filming a fleeing woman who was covered in… fur?

“What did I just see?”

“Sophie’s _tail_!” Chris squealed. John did his best to ignore the lad’s prominent erection, to be fair Sherlock’s curls did that to him so he could hardly judge, “Come on. We have to inspect the area she was at for clues!”

“Maybe I should text Sherlock,” John worried.

“Come on! Before someone tramples it! Hey, do you have any crime scene tape? I have to message Kemp!”

“Kemp?”

“He’s the only one who’s stood by me since this whole thing started,” Chris explained.

John nearly dropped his bag of books in his effort to stop Chris from trodding all over the footprints in the area. He pulled him back, took out his own phone, snapped several photos, and texted Sherlock.

**Just saw Sophie the Wolflady fleeing Hyde Park. She dug something up here. According to Chris it was supposed to be a talisman that leads to the underground? You think there’s evidence in the tube? – JW**

**Idiot. – SH**

**No, don’t take it like that. You know what I mean. – SH**

**What part of Hyde Park? – SH**

**Bayswater. Across from Lancaster Gate. Oh, and you’re an arse. – JW**

**Be there soonest. Did you ask what I told you to? – SH**

**Yes, sales of KRATIDES graphic novels are through the roof. They’re flying off the shelf. That’s why Chris didn’t have all of the issues. They’re getting harder to come by. - JW**

Sherlock showed up in short order and took over the area, crawling about on the ground in his fine suit without an ounce of shame. Even Chris looked embarrassed, but John had watched Sherlock work enough times that he was practically thrumming with anticipation.

“Well?” John asked eagerly when Sherlock straightened up, “What is it? Murder? Theft? Arson?”

“And they call me a high functioning sociopath,” Sherlock frowned at John, and then hurried off in the direction Sophie the Wolflady had fled in.

“You’re a bit weird, aren’t ya?” Chris asked, giving John a worried look before following after Sherlock.

“I’m not… he’s the one who…” John sighed and trailed after them both.

They were shortly joined by Chris’ two assistant admins from his website. They were looking frustrated and tired.

“Can you talk him out of this?” Josh whispered to John, “He’s driving us all batty and he’s making a fool of himself. He’s lost all his friends, he’s being ridiculed constantly, and his parents think he’s on drugs. Our website used to be respected, but now it’s just a laughing stock. It’s a bloody nightmare!”

“I’ll do my best,” John promised him, though he now wasn’t sure that Chris was entirely wrong.

“So this happened in the last issue?” Sherlock was questioning Chris.

“Yeah, the next issue will be out on Friday. I can’t _wait!”_

“What else happened?” Sherlock queried, “Were there any other London locations listed?”

“Oh, yeah, most everything happens in London. Whenever they show something in an issue I go out and take a few snapshots of that area and put it on our website. That way people have a good visual of the real-life location, even if they’re halfway round the globe!”

Sherlock smirked at John who gave him a baffled look. Sherlock walked up to him, waving off the three young men.

“So, what do you think?” Sherlock asked, his face practically twitching in his effort not to burst out his solution.

“I think you already know what happened.”

“And your theory?”

“Well, I thought Chris was barmy at first-“

“Dull.”

“-But after seeing the Wolflady with my own eyes, I think someone’s up to something.”

“Care to elaborate?” Sherlock smirked.

“Sherlock,” John sighed, “If I elaborate you’ll just make fun of my elaboration and then tell me your theory- which will be correct. Could we just pretend I’m perfectly chastised and aware of my sub-par mental status and get on with your deduction?”

Sherlock sighed, “Kemp.”

“His mate?”

“Not his mate, his _fan_. Kemp is all over their website, goading Chris to share what he’s seen and spread the word that KRATIDES is a real superhero organization fighting terrorists in London. As a result, Chris has posted it on Twitter, Facebook, Google +, everywhere. He’s _advertising_ for them.”

“For KRATIDES? What like I do for you? Sherlock, you’re not telling me they’re real…”

“No, no, no, not for KRATIDES, for Paul _Kemp_ \- the publisher of KRATIDES. He’s using Chris.”

“He’s… that poor kid thinks they’re real. He’s mad for Sophie. He’s alienated friends and dropped out of Uni because of this!”

Sherlock’s joyous look faltered, he spent a moment studying John’s face and John watched his face twitch into several different facial expressions until it settled on one of mild concern.

“When you put it that way, it is a bit not good.”

“Yeah, Sherlock, just a bit,” John sighed.

“Technically, they’ve done nothing wrong. Broken no laws.”

“Technically, they’ve ruined his life.”

“Then I suppose one good turn deserves another,” Sherlock stated, staring off over John’s shoulder contemplatively. John glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing.

“Sherlock?” John called as Sherlock spun on his heal and marched back off in the direction of the main road, “Sherlock!”

XXXXXXXXX

John was grinning from ear to ear. It was Saturday and Chris was headed out for Shaftesbury Ave in Soho. Dressed as a Mummy with a red spandex outfit bearing a large yellow K across the front and S across the back. John and Sherlock were currently dressing up as ninjas.

“This shouldn’t be as much fun as it is,” John grinned.

Sherlock returned the grin but didn’t comment.

“I’m a bloody _ninja_ ,” John snickered.

“Now who’s a geek, John?” Sherlock replied, donning a mask and picking up a rather sharp sword.

John’s sword was fake. John was only a bit disappointed by that.

“Fuck you, Sherlock, I’m a bloody ninja!”

Once they got down to Soho via Sherlock’s network of back alleys and rooftops (John didn’t think he’d ever get used to jumping roofs no matter how often Sherlock assured him he’d computed John’s leg length into the jumping probability equations) they dropped down from their fire-escape perch and squared off against Latimer the Mummy of KRATIDES. After lots of loud fighting and proclamations- mainly that KRATIDES would never stop their feudal lord from taking over the crown- a crowd had gathered and were filming the scene. John heard several of them shouting about how it was all _real_ while others argued it was a hoax. Finally ‘the ninjas’ were chased off with a proclamation that they’d ‘be back’ and Latimer the Mummy jumped up on top of a bench to shout out some information.

Once he had pulled off his mask he told all the people there what had really happened, how Kemp had used and tricked him but wouldn’t be held liable for the harm he’d done in order to sell a few comic books. The crowd was sympathetic and the whole thing made the news…feeds. On Twitter, Facebook, and Google+.

The whole debacle ended with Chris writing out a check and handing it off to John, who pocketed it gratefully and clapped him on the back.

“Well, that’s over with. Now you can get on with your life,” John grinned amicably.

“That _was_ my life,” Chris sighed, “I feel like such a fool.”

John watched the dejected young man walk out of the flat and sat down in his chair.

“Well, that was less than satisfying,” John sighed.

“Hmm,” Sherlock acknowledged.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Oh, I imagine so. It’s not like it was the only graphic novel in existence.”

[CHAPTER TWELVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/97564.html)


	12. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 12

“Do people actually read your blog?”

“Where do you think our clients come from?”

“I have a website.”

“In which you enumerate 240 different types of tobacco, so nobody’s reading your website. Right, then. Dyed blonde hair. No obvious cause of death, except for these _speckles_ , whatever they are.”

Sherlock turned and marched out of the morgue leaving John and Lestrade to trail after him.

“We’re going to have to visit the house, go through the routine that Ms. Stoner went through each day. Something in that house killed her and now it is killing her sister. It’s only a matter of time before the step-father shows symptoms.”

“What about the boyfriend? It was snake venom they found in her system and he’s very odd and… beardy.”

“Yes, but in concentrated doses. He may have an entire vivarium full of herps, but none of them bit either woman. Not enough concentrated venom and it doesn’t explain the speckles. _Beardy_? Really John?”

“Herps?”

“Yes, herps, as in herptiles. Reptiles and amphibians are often called ‘herps’, do you _ever_ read anything besides your own blog?”

“Again with my blog, Sherlock. Does it bother you that much? I haven’t made any more comments on your lack of knowledge of certain astrological things.”

“For your information,” Sherlock swung around to face John with a look of outrage on his face, “I have memorized the entire of our solar system including the fact that Pluto is no longer classified as a planet, despite the fact that it obviously is! Is that what you want to hear? That I’m storing useless information just because it fascinates you and I like to impress you?”

“Ah, no, but… thanks?” John tried, completely flummoxed.

“You’re welcome!” Sherlock snarled with the tone of voice someone used to tell another person to bugger off.

_What the hell just happened?_

XXXXXXXXX

Roylott cosmetics, run by Doctor Roylott, was a big name in the cosmetic world. They’d even appeared on the Connie Prince show several times. When Julia Stoner began to slowly sicken and then died the family was horrified and clearly grieving. When the boyfriend looked good for it but provided an airtight alibi Sherlock was temporarily stumped until he decided the poisoning had to be done over a lengthy period of time. Which brought John and Sherlock to Dr. Roylott’s home where Julie and her sister Helen also lived. Helen had just started to show signs of sickening and had a few spots on the back of one hand.

“We’re going to go through the motions of her last night alive,” Sherlock informed Helen, “I need access to her room and any other area of the house she attended. I want you to walk me through her routine. Leave _no detail_ out, no matter how unimportant you think it is.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, and thank you,” Helen replied, her eyes heavy and her skin pale.

“She is _not_ well, Sherlock,” John whispered.

“I’m aware,” Sherlock nodded.

“For the record, I’m sleeping on the floor.”

“The what?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“The floor. You’re going to recreate her last night. If I’m going to sleep in the same room with you, I’m sleeping on the floor.”

“That’s ludicrous. Obviously you’ll take the bed as I don’t _need_ to sleep.”

“No sleep mode?”

“Not tonight, no.”

“I suppose…” John worried.

“Oh, grow up,” Sherlock sighed and followed Helen up the stairs to her room.

There they worked step by step through her final moments. John had a moment of supreme discomfort as Sherlock ordered him to draw him a bubble bath.

_He’ll be covered by bubbles. You won’t see anything. Just don’t look while he undresses. Think about Harry, drunk, naked, and singing “I’m a little teapot” in the garden just before you shipped out. Think about Mrs. Hudson naked. Think about Mrs. Stuffles from 6 th grade naked. Just don’t think about… _

John’s train of thought was cut off when Sherlock hopped into the tub… fully dressed.

“These bubbles smell interesting, what are they? Expensive?” Sherlock asked while John laughed uproariously from the toilet seat.

“They’re my father’s newest product line. It hasn’t been released yet.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock wondered, splashing about a bit and bringing it to his face to sniff it, “Something odd here. John, smell this and tell me what you think.”

John leaned over and gave the handful of bubbles a sniff, “Very pretty. It’s you.”

“Do grow up,” Sherlock sighed.

“You’ve said that twice now, but you’re the one in the bubble bath with your clothes on!” John laughed.

“Helen, do you use this brand as well?” Sherlock asked, climbing out of the bath and grasping John’s hand suddenly. John stared down at it in confusion, but Sherlock released it quickly and turned his attention to Helen.

“Well, yes, but it’s not available in the shops. Dr. Roylott gave me a bottle recently. He gave that one to Julia a few weeks ago.”

“Very well. John go and fetch me my change of clothes from the suitcase you packed.”

John sighed and headed out. When he returned Helen was standing outside the bathroom door with high color in her cheeks.

“Something wro…?” John’s sentence was cut off as Sherlock opened the door and took the clothes from his hand.

He was wearing nothing but a towel. Over his hair.

“We’re leaving, John,” Sherlock stated, breezing past them a few minutes later.

“Good night, Ms. Stoner,” John stated, “We’re very sorry for your loss.”

XXXXXXXXXX

As suspected the bubble bath contained a slow acting poison.

“Every time they used it they were slowly killing themselves,” John breathed.

“Not just them, John,” Sherlock stated, and grasped John’s hand again.

John’s breath caught in his throat and his face flushed, but then Sherlock turned his hand over and showed him a small discoloration on the inside of his wrist.

“You dripped some of the concentrated serum on your wrist while preparing my bath. Stamford is on his way down with anti-venom. Please don’t live up to the steriotype and be a difficult patient, doctor,” Sherlock smirked.

“Shit,” John breathed, “I thought I was just tired from all the running about we’ve done tonight.”

“You might be. There’s no telling how the dosing works. Better safe than sorry.”

Stamford walked in the door and John obediently removed his jumper. Since he’d need to sit for a while with the IV in his arm he opted to remove his shirt as well and sat beside Sherlock in only his vest while Stamford listed the potential side effects.

“I’d really rather you were in a bed for this, John, but Sherlock insists you go home with him tonight,” Stamford sighed.

“Thanks Mike, but I’ll be fine,” John reassured.

Once the doctor left the room John watched his IV drip and wondered at his close call. His arm was starting to itch and feel cold, but he was prepared for that so he ignored it.

“This is an unfortunate pattern, John,” Sherlock told him as he typed out his instructions for Lestrade, “I seem to continually get you into dangerous situations.”

“I’m fine. You did warn me when we first met.”

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock smirked, “I do recall that.”

“And here I am.”

XXXXXXXXXX

The next day Sherlock and John informed Helen of her step-father’s poisonous bubble bath.

“That’s impossible,” Helen scoffed, “It’s perfectly safe. He told us so. It’s been _tested_.”

“This wasn’t an accident, Ms. Stoner,” Sherlock replied coldly, “Your step-father killed your sister in cold blood and now he’s killing you.”

“She was bitten by a snake! How _dare_ you accuse a good man of-“

“He put the puncture marks in her ankle to deflect the attention to one of Percy’s snakes. DI Lestrade is on his way here and then we’ll be heading to his house to arrest him. You may come with us or go on your obliviously merry way, but either way he will be spending the rest of his life in jail for murder.”

Ms. Stoner burst into tears, but Sherlock skulked off in disgust to wait outside for Lestrade. While John tried to comfort her she took out her phone and typed out a text, but he was too polite to check what it was. He regretted that when they arrived at Dr. Roylott’s house to find he had hung himself from the kitchen light-fitting. He had left no note, but his mobile was nearby and the last message received was from his step-daughter asking him how he could have killed Julia.

<http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/13july>   
  


[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/98026.html)

 


	13. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 13

**SHERLOCK HOLMES BAFFLED!**

<http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/01august>

“No don’t mention the _unsolved_ ones!”

“People want to know you’re human.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re interested… Well, I say human. You know what I mean. Not perfect like the android overlords come to take over the world they tend to dramatize you and all other sentient bots to be.”

“ _Interested._ No they’re not. Why? Are they?”

“Mmm, look at that. 1,895.”

“Sorry what?”

“I reset that counter last night. This blog has had nearly 2,000 hits in the last eight hours. This is your living, Sherlock. Not 240 different types of tobacco ash.”

“[Two hundred and forty-three](http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/casefiles/),” Sherlock growled, turning back to his experiment with a grimace and a flare from his blowtorch.

John chuckled and went back to his blog.

 

 

**THE NAVAL TREATMENT**

A/N This one has me baffled. In the show it appears to be The Aluminium Crutch, but John was supposedly not present during The Aluminium Crutch, listed the name as The Naval Treatment (right before the dreaded deerstalker photo was taken) but has no blog entry by that name. In ACD Canon this was meant to refer to The Naval Treaty, which sadly is a part of the Bruce-Partington plans already used in The Great Game. Obviously, I’m not going to run a repeat- though I was tempted to skip this completely. Instead I’m going to do what I have done little of in this fanfic: Make shit up. I just love finding an excuse for a few little tidbits in the show, so now is my chance!

**WARNING:** Major squick in the form of spiders and corpses. Also, references to religion. I mean NO disrespect towards Catholicism or the pope; this is just how I think Sherlock would behave.

 

Since Sherlock’s viewing of _Terror By Night_ had been disrupted by a murder, the surviving crew of the show gave him two tickets to see any other show of his liking- that one having been canceled and he having expressed his distaste for their imagination in murder plot. John was flattered and thrilled when Sherlock promptly told him that they were going together; he’d expected Sherlock to fob the tickets off on someone else or lose them in the clutter of their flat.

So three days after The Aluminium Crutch was solved they were headed for a play about theft. John was particularly looking forward to spending some time in silence with the consulting detective and Sherlock was looking forward to… whatever Sherlock looked forward to besides murder and acid burning through the lino. They found their seats, which were excellent of course, and sat themselves down to enjoy the show.

Twenty minutes in Sherlock was growling out the perpetrators name over and again to the point John wanted to hit him. By intermission he did, but only with the rolled up show bill.

“That was unnecessary,” Sherlock scowled at him.

“No, what’s unnecessary is you growling under your breath like that,” John hissed.

The lights came on and they both stood to mingle outside for intermission as seemed required of every show.

“It’s _boring_ John! The least they could have done was make it less obvious!”

“Sherlock, everything is obvious to you. The least _you_ could do is appreciate that the actors and stage crew put a _lot_ of effort into this. Just smile and say you loved it. No snarky remarks!”

“ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock growled.

John got a drink while Sherlock pouted in a corner and played his game of deducing details of passersby… as they left the restroom. John joined him to snicker behind his drink as he whispered his observations to him.

“That fellow there has been cheating on his wife with a man half his age in the Filipinos…”

“He’s hideous, what twenty-year-old would let him bugger them?”

“One desperate for food, sadly, he’s a traveling businessman. His wife has no idea that he’s squandering their money and they’ll soon lose the house.”

“The bastard!” John decided firmly.

“Perhaps, but I suspect he knows who his father is. And that man…” Sherlock paused and his face lit up, “That man has just seen someone die!”

“What?” John asked, lowering his cup and staring at the man who had emerged from the toilet with sweat dotting his brow and his jacket missing.

“Help! Someone help!” He shouted to the room and then promptly vomited in the entryway.

“I hate walking through vomit. Give me your jacket,” Sherlock demanded of John.

“No.”

“ _John_.”

_“Fine_ , but you owe me a new one.”

“Can it be less ugly than this one?” Sherlock asked as he dragged John’s jacket off his shoulders and hurried over to lay it across the puddle of vomit. John didn’t bother answering.

Sherlock strode eagerly into the bathroom while John tried to decide if he wanted to step on his saturated jacket.

“John! You need to see this!” Sherlock shouted.

“Coming!” John called back.

“Oh, I doubt it. It’s rather disgusting, actually.”

John braced himself. He’d never actually heard Sherlock claim something was disgusting before. Sure enough a man was sitting on the toilet, his face slack with death and the blood drained to his legs. His trousers were around his ankles and most of the blood from his wound was in the toilet. It was the wound that was the interesting part. The man had a gaping hole in his stomach and it was filled with a funnel shaped spider web that led into his bowels.

“Watch where you put your hands,” Sherlock warned, “I can’t be certain, but this appears to be a tarantula web, though that does not mean it is deadly.”

“How the hell did he get a tarantula in his stomach?”

“John, I thought you were a doctor? That is his lower intestine, not his stomach, and I imagine he didn’t. The stomach acids would kill it, but he certainly had _something_ in his guts. Just look at the wounds behind the web. Someone carved him open and pulled something out.”

“A drug mule?”

“One of many theories I’m already working on. Let’s get Lestrade here and get him transported to a lab for autopsy. I’d like to capture the spider or spiders that were with him.”

“Don’t you mean in him?”

“No, I mean _with_ him. Did I not just say they couldn’t have…”

“Sherlock there’s a spider in his gut.”

Sherlock looked back when John pointed and sure enough a spider was peering out of his abdomen at them from its funnel web hole. When Sherlock leaned further forward John frantically dragged him backwards but he spider retreated even faster than John could pull.

“John, for pity’s sake, I’ll hardly be harmed by a spider bite! Especially not this one, it’s no more harmful than a bee sting- so long as you haven’t an allergy, of course.”

“I guess we can rule out poisoning as a cause of death, then,” John sulked at Sherlock’s scolding. It had been a reflex to pull him to safety.

“Perhaps, but I’d rather not rule that out immediately. For all practically purposes he seems to have died of blood loss.”

“That would be my assumption as well based on what I’m seeing, but like you said: autopsy.”

“How long do you think he’s been dead?”

For all that Sherlock had told him the spider was harmless, John was still hesitant to reach out and touch _anywhere_ on the body. He hesitated a moment and then reached out and touched the face to feel his body temperature and rotated the jaw. Another spider crawled out of his mouth.

“Bloody hell!” John gasped, backing up quickly as the spider crawled around behind his neck.

“Perhaps I should capture the spiders first,” Sherlock wondered with his eyebrows furrowed.

“More than 12 hours,” John breathed through his nose, “Judging by the state of decay- especially around his bowel area- and the progressed rigor mortis.”

“And the fact they had time to weave a nice web like this. Look how _structured_ it is,” Sherlock admired.

“I may actually be ill,” John stated with no small amount of shock.

“Do it elsewhere, this is a crime scene. Under your jacket would be preferable,” Sherlock stated, shooing John away from his corpse.

John hurried into the hall and was sick in a bin just as Lestrade showed up.

“You eat something off? One of Sherlock’s experiments?” Lestrade asked in concern.

“Mph, no. Corpse. Brace yourself,” John warned.

“I’m a Detective Inspector,” Lestrade laughed, “I’ve seen things you can’t imagine.”

“I’d rather not, thanks,” John panted, accepting a bottle of water from a concerned employee.

Lestrade was in there a few minutes before he came hurrying out.

“Holy Queen Mary!”

“I warned you,” John chuckled.

“There’s a spider in his… gods, the _smell_! How did no one notice this sooner?!”

“Ah, yes, the smell would be his perforated bowels…” John started to explain, but Lestrade interrupted him by shoving him aside and being sick in John’s bin, “Ah, as I was saying. The bowels perforated so you smell digestive juices. They must have drained or the spiders couldn’t have made a web there, so I’m re-evaluating my original time of death to 24 hours or more. I’m going to go question the employees, try to get a timetable. Care to come along?”

“Fuck yeah, let someone else handle that in there,” Lestrade replied, giving the bathroom a horrified look.

John talked to the employees and found out that the bathrooms hadn’t been in use for the last 48 hours. What with the murder on-stage that Sherlock has solved a few days prior, the place had been shut up for quite some time. They had arrived to set up the stage, but had used the employee bathrooms in the back. As far as they were aware, the only person who had accessed them was the janitor, which led to the identification of the body. Mr. Ralph Williams was the janitor who had announced he was going to clean the bathrooms right before vanishing until a patron had knocked on the stall and found it not secured. He’d apologized upon seeing a knee through the gap, but when no one tried to re-secure the door and the person made no reply he had called out in concern. When that produced no results he had opened the stall to find the horror within. Apparently they’d been paging the janitor since shortly before the play began as several people had complained of a ‘horrific smell’, but no one had gone to investigate.

Finally Sherlock captured a total of three spiders, all Italian Tarantulas, and headed out with a cheered smile and his prizes secured in a paper bag.

“This is fantastic, John! I’m so glad we came!” Sherlock clapped John on the shoulder and practically skipped out of the building.

“Is he taking those gut spider’s back to Baker Street?” John asked Lestrade in horror, “Lestrade, he’s taking the gut spider’s _back to_ _Baker Street_.”

“Well, he’s Sherlock what are you gonna…”

“Kill him. I’m gonna kill him. Sherlock! Sherlock you are _not_ taking those gut spiders back to our flat!” John shouted as he chased after the mad detective.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock had each spider in a different container with labels affixed to each and was cheerfully feeding them thumbs from the fridge.

“I can’t believe you’re feeding them people.”

“They’ve already eaten people, John. I extracted their stomach contents some time ago. Though #3 here actually had mouse blood in him.”

“Mouse. Fantastic. There were mice, tarantulas, a corpse, and bowel fluids in that bathroom. It’s official. I now have a phobia of public washrooms. What’s that called anyway?”

“Lutropublicaphobia.”

“You made that up.”

“If you aren’t going to do anything except pace and whine then you might as well go do the shopping. I need you to pick a few things up.”

“Right fine,” John sighed, accepting the list and glancing it over.

_Android Synthesized Semen #12?_

“Ah, Sherlock?” John asked, but balked when the question came to his lips, “Where should I go for the… robot stuff.”

“Where do you usually go?” Sherlock blinked.

“The Tesco, but I’m not sure they’ll have… everything you needwantneedonthelist. I’m not sure they’ll have everything on the list.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and glanced at his mobile, “There’s an Android Junction two blocks down from the Tesco. Is that too much trouble?”

“No, no, not at all. Thanks.”

John hurried out the door with his face burning. When he got to Android Junction the attendant was a sentient android who gave him a nasty look when he told him what he wanted.

“What would _your kind_ need that for?”

“It’s not for me, it’s for a friend,” John replied, blushing.

“A _friend_ , eh?” He asked with bite.

“Yes, a _friend_ ,” John replied irritably.

The android in question was less realistic looking than Sherlock was, as pleasure bots tended to be far more humanoid. His skin looked decidedly plastic and his hair made Barbie look accurate. His eyes also glowed faintly in the drab machine-shop-like store. It gave him a sci-fi feel and John wasn’t thrilled with it.

“Look,” John sighed, “He’s really busy. Are you going to sell it to me or not? Because if not, he’s going to come down here himself and make you wish you’d never developed free will. He’s an arse, and I’m not just saying that because I love him.”

_Bloody hell, what did I just say?!_

The robot blinked and then let out a mechanical laugh that was made far more realistic by the humor in his eyes as he doubled over with mirth. When he’d gotten a grip on himself he turned and unlocked a sliding glass door beneath the counter. He pulled out the requested bottle, which looked like a motor oil bottle but was marked otherwise, and handed it to John.

“Give you a deal. Buy two, get one half off.”

“Done,” John replied, “The less I have to come back here the better.”

The robot was still chuckling as John all but fled the store.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock and John stared at the figure that was meeting with them via web-cam. John was in a state of awe, but Sherlock was, as usual, unimpressed.

“How ironic that you speak out against homosexuality when you are in fact gay yourself,” Sherlock stated immediately after introducing himself to the Pope.

“Sherlock!” John hissed, and then to the translator who was also on the line with them, “Don’t translate that!”

The lady didn’t listen and they were treated to a screaming tirade from the man who Sherlock began to call ‘[the big giant head’](http://1morecastle.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/GiantHead.png) thereafter. Eventually he broke the connection and Sherlock was left frowning in frustration.

“Well that was a waste of time. How will we ask him about the cameos now?”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, “You can’t _say_ stuff like that to people.”

“Oh, no, I disagree completely,” Sherlock replied in that ‘I’m making a deadpan joke’ voice of is, “I _shouldn’t_ say stuff like that to people, but I’m completely capable of doing so.”

“I hate you sometimes, you know that?”

“That’s not what Raul at Android Junction tells me,” Sherlock smirked, walking away to get himself a cup of oil.

“You’re going through that awfully fast, do you need some maintenance?” John asked in concern.

“I don’t put myself in sleep mode often enough. It makes me run hot and use up more oil than I ought to,” Sherlock explained.

John chuckled a bit.

“Something funny?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s just we’ve come a long way from you freaking out at everything I say.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock shrugged, “I’ll text Lestrade and have him handle the Vatican. If we can’t verify the source of the cameos then we’ll have a great deal of trouble finding out who gutted Mr. Williams and why he was covered in tarantulas.”

“I still think it was some kind of sign or warning,” John decided.

“An odd one, but not a bad idea. Too bad your theory isn’t backed up by any kind of evidence.”

“Oh, yeah? You want to make a friendly wager on that?” John asked, licking his lips.

Sherlock paused to watch him as he often did and John waited it out.

“What sort of wager?”

“I’m right you clean up around here for a week and do the shopping, too.”

“And when I’m right?”

“If you’re right.”

“ _When_ I’m right?”

“Name your price,” John smirked.

Sherlock paused, licked _his_ lips, and thought a moment.

“Oral sex. Receiving, not giving, no reciprocation required or asked for.”

John just about fell out of his chair.

“Sherlock you…”

“Yes or no, say nothing else,” Sherlock demanded with a warning tone.

“Yes.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade’s interview with the Pope went far better than Sherlock’s had done. It turned out that the reason he was willing to speak to them directly was because one of the cameos found in William’s gut had been in a safe with another that was worth millions as well as being of a personal value to the pope. It was, apparently, an heirloom tracing back to a great uncle of his who had done many great things for the Church and had also been a jewelry maker. He had crafted three such Cameos, giving the first to the Church, the second to his son, and the third to an orphanage in Germany. The one that had gone to his son and had come down the family line to the current Pope who had kept it in a safe next to it’s sister-cameo. He had intended to leave it to the Church, as his own line was deceased.

Now that they had a starting point, Sherlock finished tracing Williams’ movements for the last two weeks. The result was a pattern of thefts that ranged from miniscule to overwhelming, all to cover gambling debts incurred by his eager bids on horses. When the favorite champion, Silver Blaze, had gone missing he had staked his entire life savings and his daughter’s house on a different horse only for Silver Blaze to show up at the last minute and win the race.

At first Sherlock had been looking for an organization for the man to have reported to, but it turned out he was working almost entirely on his own and pawning it off to an individual collector of rare and antique oddities. Having discovered this new information, they headed to a rare arts festival being held in the same theater that both murders had taken place at. Sherlock was still looking for an organization angle since he stated that the odds of so many criminal acts taking place in a neutral location in such a short period of time were astronomical.

“Maxwell Burns,” Sherlock smiled, shaking the man’s hand with a sweet smile placed on his face, “I understand you collect some very rare antiques.”

“I do at that, but only the truly _unusual_ ,” Burns replied, accepting a glass of Champaign from John who was disguised as a waiter.

Sherlock was disguised as well; he was dressed as an older gentleman with reddish-blonde hair and a goatee. His ethereal pale-green eyes had been covered with brown contacts. John was just as charmed and hoping with all his heart that his theory turned out wrong so he could act out his fantasy of pleasuring Sherlock.

“Tell me, Mr. Burns, what sort of thing do you consider to be rare and artistic? Do androids fall under that umbrella?”

“Androids? I’ve never found them to be more than moderately intelligent toasters. Why?”

“What about a pleasure bot?”

“A pleasure bot?” The man’s eyebrow raised in confusion and John halted in his original intent to leave them to it and serve the other side of the room. He wasn’t meant to be monitoring Sherlock.

“Most are young, attractive, and eager to please. I happen to be- well _appear_ to be- close to my fifties and sadly have little sexual appetite. I’m always looking for a challenge. What do you think, Mr. Burns? Could you entice me?”

John moved to serve the people behind Sherlock, glancing over at him as casually as he could. Burn’s looked interested. In fact he looked _more_ than interested. He looked hooked.

“Is it some flaw in your programming?” Burn’s asked.

“The world may never know,” Sherlock smirked, “It certainly was not intentional. For instance, I’m programmed to have six orgasms in a row without requiring I reset my sex drive- meaning my erection would dissipate.”

John glanced around and saw that they were secluded enough that only John could hear their conversation. Burns noticed him and scowled. Sherlock gave him a raised eyebrow and John beat a hasty retreat.

“However,” Sherlock continued before John got out of earshot, “Instead I am capable of…”

_Gods, I hope I find out what!_ John thought as he mingled and listened carefully into other conversations. It was Sherlock’s task to go after Burns as the most likely target, but John was to scope out others and report back to him if he found some other suspect. A few laps of the room and he was bored to tears. Then he noticed that Sherlock was gone.

John practically dropped his serving tray and headed for the bathrooms. It was the most logical place to go for a quickie and just the sort of shite Sherlock would pull- taking the suspected murderer to the scene of the crime. John pushed through the door with blood pounding in his ears and heard the unmistakable sound of snogging and clothing being tugged free.

“You see, you firm up already. I am always prepared for a challenge Mr. Smith,” Burns’ voice growled from the handicapped stall.

“The sort of challenge that involves gutting a man in a public stall?”

“W-what?” Burns asked, and John froze on his way to the stall. Sherlock would be furious if he interrupted him now.

“Ralph Williams. You gutted him to get a rare curio out of his intestines. Tell me, were you sick afterwards? Or have you done this sort of thing so often that your stomach didn’t even turn at the smell of his perforated bowels?”

“Is that the sort of thing that gets you off?” Burns’ voice sounded caustic, “You’re an android. Perform your function. On your knees and suck me off.”

John’s stomach clenched as Sherlock made a strangled, angry sound and dropped to his knees. He wanted to kick in the door but he also wanted Sherlock to be able to solve the case.

“Where are the cameos now? In your private museum? Or did you bring them here to auction them off silently. Is that the purpose of this theater? As your own personal traffic ring?”

“I think you need to be silenced the way your kind prefer, don’t you?” Burns sneered.

The sound of a zip being lowered decided it and John used a coin to lever open the lock. He burst in swinging, but needn’t have been so enthusiastic. Burns was fumbling with his fly and looking horrified at being burst in on. Sherlock was on his knees with his pants pooled around them- erect and pale faced with a look of relief when John punched Burns out. John glanced back down and couldn’t help but stare at the long, slightly curved, slender member that faced him. He was surprised to see he was made to look circumcised as that wasn’t the norm, but more shocking was the glimmer of fluid at the tip of his flushed cock.

“Order me done,” Sherlock snapped.

“Order you…?”

“Yes! Order me done! Tell me you deny me an orgasm and to go back to my other duties.”

“You’re not to come. Go back to your other duties,” John flushed at the automatic ‘captain voice’ that took him over at the thought of ordering someone about.

Sherlock’s erection wilted and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock replied, tugging his trousers up. John put his hand out and Sherlock accepted the help up, “That was most unfortunate. I’d hoped to goad an answer from him. Well, there’s no hope for it. Search his person.”

John nodded and set about doing exactly that. He came up with the cameos in short order along with a certificate of authentication and a key that wasn’t on his ring.

“I’ll bet good money- or other things- that this is the key to the theater,” Sherlock smirked, “He’s done our work for him. Text Lestrade.”

John nodded and did so while trying hard to ignore the growing excitement that seeing Sherlock aroused and on his knees had brought out. Now was _not_ the time and in a forced situation was _not_ how he wanted his android friend.

“John?” Sherlock stated suddenly, and John looked up in concern. Burns was awake. John passed his mobile over to Sherlock and dragged the man upwards.

“You want to tell me why you thought I’d let you rape my flatmate?” John snarled, “I should rip your guts out the way you did Williams! I was a soldier, Burns. I wouldn’t need a serrated knife to do it with!”

“No wait! You’ve got it all wrong! He propositioned me!”

“You took advantage! These walls are thick, yeah? No one heard Williams scream. You think they’ll hear you?”

“You can’t do this! I have rights!”

“Quite so,” Sherlock interrupted, “Lestrade is on his way. Get your lumps in now while we can claim you were protecting me.”

John grinned violently and pulled his fist back to pummel the man into oblivion.

“Wait! I’ll talk! Not my face!”

“Speak,” Sherlock ordered as though to a dog, “Tell me about the spiders.”

“The spiders?” The man looked baffled.

“We have all the evidence we need to convict you,” Sherlock smirked, “I’m just curious about the spiders.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. If there are spiders in here, I had nothing to do with them. Wait, did a spider bite him?” Burns’ face lit up, “If he was killed by a spider then it’s not my fault!”

“Sorry, but no. None of them bit him. John?” Sherlock nodded.

John got several abdominal hits in before Lestrade showed up and prudently ignored his shouting that he had been abused. Sherlock tearfully stated the man had tried to rape him and that John had protected him… all while clinging to John like a limpid.

“He was _awful_ , Lestrade!” Sherlock sniffled, dabbing at an eye with a tissue. His disguise was removed and he was an agonizing site with his saline tears running down his cheeks at timed intervals, “He _ordered_ me to my knees to pleasure him. I couldn’t stop myself! If John hadn’t come in then I’d…”

Sherlock cut off, and pressed his forehead to John’s shoulder, which would have been awkward with his height had Sherlock not been leaning against the sink while John stood beside him. John slipped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and rubbed his arm gently.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John soothed, “I’d never let someone harm you.”

“You’re a good friend, John,” Sherlock sniffled.

“Okay, I’ve got your statement and the photos of your face and mangled clothes,” Lestrade stated as Donovan left the loo with Burns in tow, “You can stop pretending to cry now.”

“Thank goodness,” Sherlock sighed, straightening and patting at his face more firmly, “That was repulsive.”

John grinned and Lestrade rolled his eyes, “You’ll want to know something interesting Anderson found on the body.”

“ _Anderson_ found something?!” Sherlock gaped.

“That thing you pulled from his pocket, the cloth sack? You thought it might have contained the curios that he’d managed to shit out already. There’s no evidence it ever did, but they did find something interesting inside of it.”

“What’s that?”

“Arachnid scat.”

“Oh, of course!” Sherlock breathed, “I thought they’d climbed in _after_ but…”

“The spiders were in the _pouch_?” John wondered.

“Apparently,” Lestrade grinned, “He had them on his person for some reason.”

Sherlock paused a moment, his eyes glazing and John recognized it as him searching his memory banks. Lestrade did as well and they both stilled and dropped silent, knowing Sherlock needed a moment.

“Oh… Oh! How utterly… I’ve been a fool! The spiders are almost completely unrelated! John, it looks like our bet is off; we were both wrong.” Sherlock pouted a bit.

“Well… or… or we could say we both lost and both… face our punishments,” John replied, flushing as he tried to word it without making it sound as though he were _ordering_ Sherlock to put out.

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed, clearly not listening to him, “Lestrade, you’ll want to go check out a homeopathic clinic on Vine Street- that’s the one nearest the victim’s home. I’m willing to bet that they’re the ones who sold our poor smuggler his pouch full of tarantulas. They haven’t committed a crime per se, but they’re not operating safely and should at the least be fined.”

“How and why?” John asked while Lestrade looked baffled and Sherlock pealed off his disguise.

“The pouch is meant to represent the stomach, the spiders a quickening motion. They’re supposed to be killed and then placed in a sack that would be kept directly over the belly button to aid in digestion. Sadly, they didn’t do a proper job killing the spiders. Likely they simply froze them rather than gassing them or injecting them with something. Instead of dying the spiders became dormant or reached a state of hypothermia. Either way, they thawed out and made themselves cozy once our victim died. Shall we go, John?”

Sherlock wanted a last look at the art gallery before they headed out, with a manic energy that meant he was worried he’d misses something else. He kept muttering ‘Anderson!’ under his breath in a disgusted tone. John tried not to smirk, but was having a hard time of it. Finally he gave up and they headed away from the stage and out towards the back doors to leave as unobtrusively as they could.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

<http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/12august>

“So what’s this one, The Belly Button Murders?” Sherlock asked.

“The Naval Treatment?” John suggested mildly.

“Oh.”

“There’s a lot of press outside guys,” Lestrade stated as he headed back out of the bathrooms with a surprised look on his face.

“Well, they won’t be interested in us,” Sherlock replied coolly.

“Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted pictures of _you_ _two._

“Gods’ sake… John, cover your face and walk fast,” Sherlock ordered, tossing John a hat.

“Oh,” John sighed, rather sorry Sherlock didn’t want the fame he deserved.

“Still, it’s good for the public image,” Lestrade continued to drone behind them, “Big case like this.”

“I’m a private detective, the last thing I need is a _public_ image,” Sherlock growled through clenched teeth.

Sherlock pulled his coat collar up and over his face, tucking a deerstalker down low over his face and pushed his way through the crowd with John close at his heels.

Neither had any idea that the same voice of reason that had stopped Moriarty from killing them at the pool some months before would be admiring the photo on the front page the next morning.

 

**THE ALUMINIUM CRUTCH**

A/N Since the Aluminium Crutch in T.V. Canon meant John was _not_ present I’ve simply included the link to John’s Blog. If any of you are confused by the blog entries, they’re not mine; they’re owned and run by BBC I believe. It’s a good read, actually, and I read the whole thing in Sherlock’s voice since it’s all a bunch of long messages left on John’s voicemail.

<http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/02september>

  


[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/98249.html)

  



	14. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 14

A/N: I’m sure some of you are wondering why Sherlock and Mycroft aren’t all arguing with each other and such, so I wanted to explain. I’m going for a relationship closer to ACD’s version in which our boys are polite and competitive with each other, but neither affectionate nor antagonistic… for the most part.

 

Sherlock had been increasingly more touchy-feely with John since revealing he was interested in receiving oral sex. The problem was, John had no way to safely reciprocate so whenever Sherlock put his hand on his shoulder for longer than was strictly polite John simply froze, made eye contact, and waited like a deer caught in headlights. When he escalated to putting his hand on John’s leg it became even more awkward, but still John refrained from making a move on Sherlock. He would wait and hopefully the brilliant, but reserved man would make the first move, preferably one that involved John writhing beneath him in basically _any_ sexual scenario. In fact, the more John thought of it the more he realized he’d be perfectly content to lay still and quiet if Sherlock would just _get on with it already!_

When summer hit and Sherlock spent an entire day in a sheet John was left with the unfortunate problem of having to leave to wank twice in one day. He had hoped that his arousal would peak Sherlock’s interest, but he merely gave his clothed erection an annoyed look from across the room and promptly moved to another. Completely embarrassed and confused, John slunk upstairs to relieve the pressure alone. When he returned Sherlock gave him an odd look but made no comment.

The next day John went to Dublin just to get some space. The day after that Sherlock was still wrapped in a sheet, but John gave up on hiding from him and then was relieved by a call for a case.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” Sherlock replied when John expressed his concern about Sherlock sitting in a sheet on the laptop, “Now, show me to the stream.”

“I didn’t mean humiliating for _you._ ”

Sherlock did his spiel, and John was secretly enjoying it, when someone interrupted them and shut the laptop on Sherlock’s end. When the phone rang, John assumed he was going to hear from Sherlock but it turned out to be a helicopter being sent for him. John’s first thought was that something had happened to Sherlock, probably regarding his gold addiction, and that Mycroft had sent a helicopter so John could meet him at the factory.

XXX

_“I didn’t break into your flat,” Lestrade denied with a smirk._

_“Well what do you call this, then?” Sherlock asked, looking at the coppers swarming around his flat and the pink suitcase therein._

_“An intervention. We’re here to make sure you’re still clean.”_

_“Seriously?” John asked with a laugh, “Have you met him? He’s an android, what could he be addicted to? Pop music?”_

_“John…”_

_“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call ‘recreational’.”_

_“John, you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock replied nervously._

_“Yeah, but come on,” John argued, but the intense look on Sherlock’s face told him everything, “No.”_

_“What?”_

_“You?”_

_“Shut up!”_

_“Do you sell? Is that it?”_

_“No, don’t be thick.”_

_“Androids aren’t allowed gold,” Lestrade explained, “It’s a conductor. It fries their circuits, makes them feel high, can make them dangerous at times, and is extremely difficult to remove once they swallow it down. Put the price of silver through the roof, that discovery did.”_

_“Gold?” John echoed in confusion._

_“You don’t own any, do you?” Lestrade asked, with a raised eyebrow, “Sherlock’s got a standing court order not to have any in his flat.”_

_“No, none. Jesus, Sherlock, why didn’t you tell me?” John asked in alarm._

_“I am_ clean _!”_

XXX

John was in a state of shock from the moment he saw the palace until he saw Sherlock sitting in the posh surroundings dressed in nothing but a sheet. They had a silent conversation about it and John smirked and sat beside him, relieved that his friend was unharmed and clearly in one of his more amusing moods.

“Are you wearing pants?” John asked, with a smirk.

“No.”

Their eyes met and they both dissolved into laughter.

“Are we here to see the queen?” John joked just as Mycroft walked in.

“Oh, apparently,” Sherlock quipped and they both cracked up once more.

Mycroft sneered at them and asked them to grow up, giving John a chance to stretch his sarcasm out a bit. Sherlock grinned encouragement the entire time before laying into Mycroft as they usually did. The two ended up in one of their usual spats, though it degenerated to childishness fairly quickly. John was always amazed when he saw them together. They truly behaved like snippy siblings when Mycroft was far closer to being a father to him since he designed all the robots as well as owning the company and warehouse that created Sherlock. Not to mention the fact that Mycroft was some sort of government official. Sherlock had said he _was_ the British government, but John wasn’t sure how that worked out what with his ‘hobby’ of creating robots. He did know, however, that Mycroft was truly grieved of the fact he’d inadvertently created sentient beings that had ended up abused.

Eventually they convinced Sherlock to dress, which of course resulted in the stroppy robot dropping his sheet and dressing right where he was. John averted his eyes with some difficulty, and was grateful he’d already tossed off twice that day as it kept the little captain from springing to attention.

XXX

“Dominatrix?” Sherlock questioned, flipping through the photos.

“Don’t be alarmed: it’s to do with sex,” Mycroft replied, a note of concern in his voice.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him in obvious irritation, “Sex doesn’t alarm me.”

Mycroft sighed as though frustrated, “How would you know?”

Sherlock ignored him and John tried to focus on something besides the idea of two women spanking each other and making out. _So much for not having a BDSM kink…_ Eventually Sherlock did his scathing I’m-better-than-you routine and strolled out of Buckingham Palace as if he owned the place. John followed with a parting quip and they went home to… change outfits?

Sherlock seemed nervous, almost as if he were reluctant to take the case. He was clearly procrastinating, but when John called him on it, instead of blustering about as he usually did he gave him a doomed look as though he were heading to the gallows.

“Sherlock, what’s this all about? How dangerous _is_ this woman?”

“Aren’t all women dangerous? You would know, John, the fairer sex is more your area.”

_Not lately…_ John thought, and then repeated it out loud because it was true and Sherlock was half to blame. Well, actually he was _entirely_ to blame, but Sherlock was only aware of half of his reason for being to blame (he alienated John’s girlfriends and dragged him away from their dates) while being oblivious to the other half (John wanted to bugger him senseless).

Finally they headed to her house, but Sherlock was vague on their task. Instead they stopped a few streets down and Sherlock asked John to… punch him in the face?

“No, sorry, I’m not doing that.”

“Why not? Most people want to hit me within seconds of knowing me. What makes you different?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes as though he had just found a profound mystery.

“You’re my friend. I told you before. I’m not going to hurt you in any way.”

“Fine. We’ll do this the other way around,” Sherlock replied and then slugged John before he could put up his guard.

John reacted instinctively and tackled Sherlock who fought him valiantly, “You’re forgetting Sherlock, I was a soldier. I kill people.”

“You were a doctor!”

“I had bad days!”

“John, get _off!_ ” Sherlock gasped out, twisting and tossing him onto the ground.

John struggled upright, still on guard, and Sherlock put his hands out peaceably to calm him, “John, deep breath. It’s me. Sherlock. Calm down.”

“You _hit_ me!” John shouted.

“I had to. One of us has to be injured. Please calm down.”

John took a breath and stepped back, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, yes, are you?”

“Aside from a bruised face, yeah. Can you even _appear_ damaged?”

“Yes. I have a program that allows bruising to show on my skin if struck,” So saying Sherlock turned his cheek and showed a bruise forming on his cheekbone. John didn’t even remember striking him.

“Fuck, Sherlock, I’m sorry! Let me see that.”

“It’s fine, John,” Sherlock replied pushing his hands away.

“It’s not fine! After everything you’ve dealt with I’ve just slugged you!”

“I asked you to. Whatever nonsense you’ve got running through your head, kindly put it aside until the case is over. Do I have to remind you how important the _work_ is?”

“Yeah, okay. Sure,” John nodded; intensely worried that this would crop up later.

“Now here’s what we do,” Sherlock instructed handing him the lighter, “You will take your first opportunity to set off the smoke alarms. Do not under any circumstances interfere with Ms. Adler and myself. I’m going to be in character the entire time and it’s going to involve a bit of weeping. Just be your usual helpful doctor self and don’t worry about me.”

“Those two things aren’t easily separated, Sherlock.”

“Do your best.”

XXX

“What did you do to him?” John asked, running into the room and finding Sherlock on the floor of Irene Adlers bedroom. The android was on the floor in a slightly curled position, hyperventilating (could robots hyperventalate?) and shaking from head to toe. His pupils were dilated, his face flushed, and several fresh ‘wounds’ were appearing across his face and one on the side of his neck. A nearby riding crop showed the cause of the injuries.

“No idea. I think he’s broken,” Adler smirked, “Pity. He was very observant. Really quite flattering.”

“What are you talking about?” John asked offhand as he looked over Sherlock.

“The combination to my safe,” Adler explained.

John glanced up; worried the safe had caused this reaction in Sherlock. Had there been something else inside besides the phone and a gun? “What? What was it?”

“My measurements,” Adler replied, and then slipped out the window in Sherlock’s coat.

“J-john,” Sherlock gasped, “Can’t control. Won’t stop.”

“What’s wrong? Did she slip you gold?”

“N-no. Something. Systems. Operations. Aroused. Overtaxed. Pain. Flooding,” Sherlock’s gasped and then a loud grinding sound emanated from him and he became still.

For one horrifying moment John waited for him to respond again, but the life had gone out of his eyes. Sherlock was completely unresponsive; his breathing had stopped as though his battery had run down and his joints had gone completely lax as though he were in sleep mode, but neither seemed to be true. In fact, John had made Sherlock let him check his battery before they’d left for The Woman’s townhouse.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

The sirens sounded in the distance and John gathered up his friend to hurry outside for help. When they arrived an ambulance hurried forward. For several minutes John completely forgot that Sherlock was a robot and pressed him into their care. It wasn’t until he heard himself mentioning his battery that he flushed and recalled they couldn’t help Sherlock.

“He’s an android? Damn it, there’s a woman inside who _needs_ attention! What were you thinking?”

The paramedic pushed past him and John gathered Sherlock up again. He saw Lestrade and Donovan hurrying over and rushed to them.

“He’s collapsed. I don’t know what caused it. There was a horrid grinding noise and…”

“Call Mycroft,” Lestrade ordered, “Put him in the car till he arrives.”

Then Lestrade pushed past and John hurried to place Sherlock in the black and white while he called Mycroft. He repeated his frantic plea into the phone and Mycroft told him a car would be there shortly. John waited with Sherlock’s hand clasped in his, but it was still and cold. When the black sedan arrived John carried him to it and slipped inside beside Anthea with Sherlock on his lap, the detective’s head pillowed on his shoulder.

“Hold him like that,” Anthea ordered, and plugged her Blackberry into the slot behind his ear.

John waited frantically while Anthea stared at her Blackberry, but when she unplugged it and started texting away he waited impatiently for all of five seconds before demanding to know what was wrong.

“Well? What is it? What happened to him? When will he wake up?”

“Mycroft will handle it.”

“What did you find out?”

She ignored him and John settled on savoring the rare opportunity to hold Sherlock tightly while he had the chance. When they got to Mycroft’s posh townhouse John refused to let his goons carry Sherlock, instead carrying him in bridal style. Anthea led him to a workstation on the third floor where Mycroft was wearing black workpants and a vest- something that caused John to do a double take despite the circumstances.

“Lay him down on the table, please,” Mycroft ordered.

John balked at the sight of the metal table, which resembled nothing less than a morgue exam table, but laid Sherlock down and unconsciously adjusted his limbs to make him comfortable. Mycroft brushed him aside and plugged in a tablet behind Sherlock’s ear. He read it carefully for several minutes and sighed in frustration.

“Gold?” John asked worriedly, “It wasn’t his fault. Irene Adler drugged him. A bunch of Americans showed up. They looked official. What the hell did you send us into Mycroft?”

“Not gold,” Mycroft replied, “His systems overloaded, but there doesn’t seem to be a virus or a contaminant in his system. His pumps overflowed and flooded his circuitry. I’ll have to open him up and clean him out. This will take several hours, I’m afraid. I’d normally have a tech do this sort of thing, but being that it’s Sherlock…”

“Yes, right, what can I do to help?”

“Stay out of the way and silent.”

“Right,” John sat down in a corner, rubbing his hands miserably.

“Did he get the photos?” Mycroft asked.

“No. Well, he did, but she got them back.”

“Tell me what happened directly before he collapsed.”

“The Americans swarmed us. They were going to shoot me if Sherlock didn’t figure out the combination. He guessed it. Adler’s measurements.”

“How did he know those?” Mycroft asked in surprise.

“She greeted us naked,” John replied, unable to keep the accusation out of his voice, “He was completely unsettled.”

“I didn’t want him to take this case, John,” Mycroft sighed, “But we had little choice.”

“Apologize to him when he wakes up,” John snapped.

“I’ve nothing to apologize for,” Mycroft scowled, narrowing his eyes at John, “What happened after she flustered you and Sherlock and the American’s forced him to open the safe?”

“The safe was rigged with a gun. Sherlock warned us. Vatican Cameos. Something dangerous hidden inside. We both ducked, Adler and I, and Sherlock and Adler took out the two gunmen who weren’t shot by Adler’s booby trap- no pun intended.”

Mycroft snorted.

“Sherlock took the phone and we searched the house for more intruders. While we were separated Irene must have attacked him.”

“Attacked him how?”

“With a riding crop from what I saw. It was lying on the floor beside him and those bruises were forming on his face and neck. He said a few disjointed words while hyperventilating. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was having a panic attack; especially now that you’ve confirmed there’s nothing foreign in his system.”

“What words did he say?”

“Ah, aroused? Er… overtaxed, pain, operations? I’m not sure. I don’t have the memory you two have. Are you an android?”

“No.”

John had been looking down at his hands the entire time, but as the room fell silent he couldn’t resist looking up. Sherlock’s skin was peeled back to expose his inner workings. John stood up slowly, looking at the Steampunk gears and Star Trek circuits. Sherlock’s eyes were still open and it disturbed John to no end so he stepped forward and closed them.

“Sentiment,” Mycroft snorted.

“You’re elbow deep in his guts when you normally can’t stir yourself to look into your own problems. Don’t talk to me about sentiment,” John replied quietly.

Sherlock’s systems were clearly flooded with oil and other viscous fluids and gunk. John knew that Sherlock was supposed to be opened up and cleaned out yearly, but had no idea when Sherlock had last done so. Mycroft had set out first by examining the systems, but then was using a high-absorbency towel to soak up most of the fluids. Once the majority was sopped up, he began more delicate work. It was hours of labor and John eventually drifted off in his hard chair. When he awoke Sherlock was lying on the table, still and cold, with his chest and abdomen still open. Mycroft was nowhere in sight.

John stood up and looked him over; Sherlock’s circuits were all silent, still, and dark. He touched the curls and even they seemed to be limp.

“Sherlock?” John called gently.

“He can’t hear you,” Mycroft stated, stepping into the room. He was clean and dressed nicely once more, “I was about to turn him on again, but I wanted to speak with you first.”

“What about?” John asked, hearing the warning in his voice.

Mycroft sat down opposite John and a maid brought in a tea trolley. Both of them settled about the comforting routine of a cup of tea and John’s hands steadied once he had his hands wrapped around the cool saucer and the warm handle. Finally they each took a sip and John raised his eyes to meet Mycroft for the first time that morning.

“Better?” Mycroft questioned carefully.

“No, but I’m ready now.”

“We have no idea how sentience emerges when an android is created. It is a mystery. Every android made is a factory production. Custom jobs have prettier faces and a few extra programs, but none of those have shown to be the difference. A robotic maid could just as easily show sentience as a pleasure bot or governess bot. The only difference that we know of is that level 6 and 7 robots have been steadily produced with sentience for the last three years. Level 5 have on occasion, but levels 1 through 4 have never shown sentience… that we know of.”

“That you know of?”

“Level 1-4 have no speech functions. 1’s are copy and fax machines. 2’s are computers. 3’s are low-function robots with one or two possible activities like automated vacuums. 4’s are high-function robots with four or more functions without speech or personality programs used for labor. 5’s are low-function androids with speech such as maids. 6’s are high-function androids with speech and personality programs such as governesses. 7’s are custom high-function androids with speech, personality, and additional personalized software.”

“What’s the difference between an android and a robot?” John asked, putting off the inevitable as long as possible though he had an idea of what Mycroft’s news was.

“Androids are designed to specifically mimic humans, whether they physically resemble them or not. The cat you passed on the way in is technically a level 5 android. It can speak and carries messages to various members of staff for us. If you speak to it the cat behaves as you would expect a person to… or perhaps a very intelligent bird.”

“Okay. All right. Sherlock?” John replied, feeling ready for the next part.

“He may wake up with his personality and memories in tact. He may wake up devoid of all sentience, memory, and previously un-programmed personality. He may wake up somewhere in between.”

“How often… I mean… in the past… what…?”

“I have no statistics to offer. We know an electromagnetic pulse will destroy sentience. We know gold will damage their personality programs and cause glitches in their systems until removed. We know magnets ingested can wipe programs and possibly destroy sentience, but there seems no rhyme or reason to it. One android I worked on had a limp that required I remove his leg and to try to figure out what caused it. I found a large magnet in his ankle. We never determined how it entered his system, but it caused virtually no damage besides the limp. Another android I worked on had cut his finger with a knife while preparing dinner for the restaurant he worked for. He then moved a magnet on the fridge and his system shut down. His sentience was gone when he was re-activated.”

“Okay. So. Shall we?”

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded.

He stood up and adjusted a few wires before closing up Sherlock’s chest. The material that made up his skin slid over the plastic ribcage, clipping into place along the ‘bones’. The flesh formed together down the middle of his torso with something that resembled a locking plastic bag, but became almost invisible when Mycroft ran a blue light across it, seeming to shrink down and tighten.

Mycroft ran a scanner over Sherlock’s barcode and his entire body jerked and twitched and then started the re-boot process.

“Holmes Robotics Pleasure Android number 543R10CK has suffered a systems overload. Please wait while systems are re-booted and circuitry is checked for malfunction… No viruses found… No damage located… system maintenance complete… Semen Reservoir full… Oil supply full… Lubricant Reservoir full… Batter power 53%… System Overload Diagnosis Unidentified… Shut Down System? Yes or No.”

“No,” Mycroft ordered.

“System Overload Diagnosis Unidentified… re-run diagnosis? Yes or No.”

“No.”

“System Overload Diagnosis Unidentified… Start Systems? Yes or No.”

“Yes.”

“Systems fully operational in 3…2…1…” Sherlock’s eyes opened and he blinked up at the ceiling.

Mycroft was silent so John leaned forward.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s head turned to face John.

“Sherlock, do you know me?” John asked.

“Yes. Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock replied with no inflection in his voice. That in itself was not unusual.

“Do you _know_ me?” John emphasized.

Sherlock blinked, “Yes, I know you. I know you better than anyone.”

“Bloody hell Sherlock, are you _sentient?!_ ”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed, “Of course, John, why wouldn’t I be?”

John let out a breath of air, nearly slumping to the floor in relief. Sherlock sat up, and put a hand on his shoulder.

“John? What’s happened?”

“You, you…” John staggered.

“You experienced a system overload,” Mycroft explained when John proved speechless.

That got a reaction from him and his eyes widened in alarm, his fingers gripping John’s shoulder painfully before he released him quickly.

“How much damage?” Sherlock asked.

“Rather a bit,” Mycroft admitted, “But you’re showing symptoms of sentience already. Let’s perform the test, shall we?”

“Memory first,” Sherlock replied, “The last thing I recall was being assaulted by The Woman. Where is she and what happened after that?”

“You know as much as we do,” Mycroft replied, then brought out a tablet and handed it to Sherlock, “Record your answers honestly. Do not answer as you _remember_ answering before or as you believe they _should_ be answered. Answer as you _feel_.”

“Which is the first answer,” Sherlock snorted, “Non-sentient androids can’t feel and would question that order.”

“Precisely. Now then. Speak your answers into the pads microphone. What makes a human alive?”

“A pulse.”

“What makes a person sentient?”

“Independent thought process and free will.”

“What is the difference between right and wrong?”

“Right upholds society while wrong damages individuals or the populace at large.”

What is the difference between love and hate?”

“Very little, from what I’m told.”

“Sherlock, answer the question. What is the difference between love and hate?”

“I do not know.”

John looked up in alarm, but Mycroft continued.

“If you find a bag of money on the ground and there is no one near it, what would you do with it?”

“Give it to John.”

John’s eyebrows furrowed at that.

“John who?” Mycroft replied.

“Sorry, John _Watson_.”

“If you see a child crying on the street what do you do?”

“Find the parents.”

“If you can not find the parents?”

“Irrelevant, of course I can find the parents,” Sherlock scoffed.

Mycroft sighed and moved on, “If you see a crime committed what do you do?”

“Restrain the person and contact the police as soon as I figure out the rest of the crime, should there actually be something _interesting_ about it... and call John Watson.”

Mycroft glanced at John who gave Mycroft a confused look.

“If you saw someone killed, how would you feel?”

“Curious as to who the murder was.”

“How would you feel about the victim?”

“Irrelevant, the victim is dead and needs nothing from me.”

“How would you feel about the victims family?”

“Like finding the killer.”

“Why?”

“To bring them to justice.”

“Why?”

“Because I must.”

“Why?”

“This wasn’t on the last test.”

“ _Why_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock was silent a moment.

“I don’t know.”

“If your life was threatened by a human, what would you do?”

“Defend myself without killing, if possible.”

“If someone you love was threatened, what would you do?”

“Kill the assailant.”

Mycroft looked alarmed, “Perhaps we should re-visit the question of love and hate?”

“Love is someone I love, hate is someone who tries to hurt someone I love.”

“You can not define something using it as it’s own definition.”

“Love is… Love is…” Sherlock looked anxious, “John, what is love?”

“I…” John started.

“Don’t answer that, John,” Mycroft replied, “Sherlock, can you answer the question?”

“Love is John Watson punching my cheek instead of my nose or teeth,” Sherlock answered.

“Pardon?” Mycroft asked, his eyes narrowing at John.

“Irene Adler said that yesterday,” John explained, “She was trying to rattle us.”

“Sherlock, form your own answers, please. What is love?”

“Love is John carrying me back from the Met when my battery ran out because he didn’t want me to be embarrassed,” Sherlock decided with a sharp nod.

“What is the meaning of life?” Mycroft asked.

“Irrelevant, there is no meaning to life, it simply exists,” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft took the tablet from Sherlock’s hand and tapped it a few times.

“Sentient,” Mycroft nodded.

“Well of course I am. _Honestly_ ,” Sherlock scoffed, “Let’s go, John. You look tired and I’m _bored_.”

“Not until I have a word with the good doctor,” Mycroft replied.

“Not now, Mycroft,” Sherlock argued.

“ _Now_ , brother. Leave us.”

Sherlock stared Mycroft down, but two of his goons arrived and Sherlock left with a careful glance at John.

“Is there something you would like to tell me, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked, his voice cold as ice.

“Nothing that I can think of,” John replied in confusion, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. Now that the tension had released he felt utterly drained.

“Semen and lubricant tanks full? Defining love and justifying murder by your name?”

John looked up in horror, “No! Oh, no, it’s not why you think! I’ve no idea why he had me buy him semen, and I had no idea he had lubricant in him. It’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

“I’m fully aware of you carrying him home from New Scotland Yard, I’ve seen the CCTV tapes. Quite heroic. Do you consider yourself a hero, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked, his voice accusatory as though being a hero were a crime worthy of hanging.

“No, just a friend. I care about him, obviously, but it’s not possible. It can’t ever happen,” John replied defensively.

“Why not?” Mycroft asked, and John immediately had the impression that he was being questioned as stridently as Sherlock had just been.

“Because I won’t rape him, and there’s no other way to be with him except raping him. He literally _can’t_ say no. I won’t do that to him.”

“See that you don’t. You may go,” Mycroft stated firmly.

 

*Since gold is highly conductive, I’m using that as Sherlock’s addiction. In this AU a robot can ingest a piece of gold and it will interfere with his circuits wherever it touches, leaving them with a dazed and ‘high’ feeling. It requires removal in order for proper operation to continue.

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/98426.html)


	15. vincentmeoblinn | sentience ch 15

Sherlock complained of joint stiffness the entire way home, but a quick text to Mycroft told them it was normal. Sherlock was advised to put himself in ‘sleep mode’ for at least six hours to let his systems run updates and diagnostics. John was grateful as his own body felt like it hadn’t slept at all and was achy from the hard chair. They got home and went their separate ways after John inhaled the first edible thing he found in the fridge. John passed out and for once had no dreams; which was probably why he was convinced what happened next _was_ a dream.

Sherlock knocked on John’s door around 5PM. Since their schedules were completely thrown off John spent several minutes thinking it was 5AM and telling him off. Sherlock corrected him calmly and then began what John could only describe as the most beautiful torture he’d ever experienced.

“John, I need your help with something.”

“What now?”

“May I come in?”

“No. What do you need? My laptop is downstairs.”

Instead of replying, Sherlock took hold of John’s wrist and guided his hand to the crotch of his pants where John encountered that long, thin erection he’d gotten a glimpse of in the theater’s washroom.

“Say nothing except yes or no,” Sherlock replied, “If this happens I will require you _not_ to orgasm. Will this happen?”

“Y-yes,” John breathed, already beginning to harden.

“Will you hold off your orgasm?”

“Yes,” John breathed as the blood rushed south at a faster rate.

“Good, on your knees, then,” Sherlock released John’s wrist and dropped his trousers right in the doorway.

John briefly considered inviting Sherlock in, but the sight of his prick dripping pre-come made him drop to his knees right where he was. The skin of Sherlock’s cock was different than the rest of his body. It was softer and more velvety and the head of his cock had the same spongy consistency that John’s own did. It was clear what attributes his creators were trying to focus on, but that only brought home to John the fact he was running his hands over apiece of _male_ anatomy. Up until this point Sherlock had been neither male nor female to him, just a machine and his best friend, but now he was decidedly masculine and John was utterly wrecked as he wrapped his lips around the tip of Sherlock’s cock. The man was utterly silent, and after a few hesitant bobs John was beginning to lose confidence. What the hell did he know about sucking a man off?

Then Sherlock gripped both sides of the doorframe and sucked in a breath when John ran his tongue around the tip and he took up his task with more enthusiasm. It occurred to him that Mrs. Hudson could walk out of her flat at any moment and hear them going at it like teenagers, but Sherlock’s breath was soon coming in soft pants as his hips bucked forward so John pushed down his reservations and did his best to guard against being gagged on that long shaft.

_This is for Sherlock._

John was in agony. His cock was rock hard and leaking in his pants, but he didn’t even dare give himself a squeeze to relieve the pressure lest it scare Sherlock off. Sherlock, in the mean time, was beginning to lose the rhythm in his hips and his cock was swelling. John took a moment to memorize the feel of Sherlock’s velvet-wrapped-in-steel (literally?) cock and the salty taste of the pre-come leaking out. He didn’t know if this would ever happen again, so he _needed_ to be able to remember this for the rest of his life. John moaned around Sherlock’s cock and the man gasped and jerked spasmodically.

“Damn!” Sherlock gasped, “Why can’t I…? John, you have to give me permission to climax! Can I come?”

John pulled off, gripping his own cock frantically as it threatened to burst completely untouched at the sound of that deep voice pleading for relief.

“Yes!” John gasped, and wrapped his lips around the tip of Sherlock’s cock just in time for him to come with a startled gasp.

John swallowed Sherlock down convulsively, licking around his head until his member was spent, but when he leaned back Sherlock gripped his hair and pulled him forward again.

“Moooore,” Sherlock moaned, but then tugged John up onto his feet and crowded him into the bedroom.

John’s door was kicked shut and he found himself pinned to his own bed with Sherlock straddling his hips and thrusting frantically against his own clothed erection. Sherlock swore at the friction and tugged John’s trousers down.

“Can I…” John started.

“Don’t _speak_!” Sherlock snarled, and John’s mouth clicked shut instantly.

Sherlock decided to engage John’s mouth to keep him silent and those full lips covered his. The kiss, oddly enough, was completely inexperienced and John found himself guiding it, the distraction momentarily making him forget his promise not to come. Sherlock had set about thrusting his still-hard member against John’s hip, stimulating him in the process. John was right on the edge of a truly spectacular orgasm when Sherlock whimpered pitifully into his mouth as though in fear and John quickly worked his hand between them and into his sleep pants to grip his cock and hold himself off once more.

Sherlock came with a strangled cry this time, his back arching until he was nearly bent in half with his head thrown back and his eyes wide in shock. John moaned in aroused misery and tried to will his bollocks to drop back down again. Sherlock wasn’t done, though, and clamored to his knees after collecting a handful of his own spunk for lubricant.

“It’s ridiculous, John,” Sherlock gasped, “It’s utterly distracting. Why was I aroused? It makes no sense. She should _repulse_ me. A female. A dominatrix. The personification of my fears and self-loathing.”

“Irene Adler?” John asked some of his ardor draining out of him as Sherlock threw his head back and moaned.

“Yeessss! _The_ Woman. She’s terrifying and arousing, John, but not you.”

John’s cock was definitely softening now, and his dismay was growing the more Sherlock spoke.

“You’re safe,” Sherlock gasped, grabbing John’s slack wrist and guiding him to toss Sherlock off, “You’ll protect me from her, won’t you John?

“Yes?” John replied, unsure about the conversation.

“You’ll kill her to save me?”

“Yes,” John replied, his voice more sure.

Sherlock leaned forward and whispered his next words into John’s ear, “What about myself, John? Will you save me from myself?”

“Y-yes!” John cried out, his hips bucking up as his confused prick began to harden again at the mixed signals.

“Mmm,” Sherlock leaned back and his eyes dropped down to meet John’s, “You intrigue me, John. Thrill me. Excite me every day. I _trust_ you. I’ve never trusted anyone before, but you won’t turn on me, will you?”

John’s hand worked Sherlock’s cock feverishly as his own member hardened further. Their eyes were locked and he was entirely absorbed by Sherlock’s blown pupils surrounded by a thin band of his ethereal green eyes. His lips were parted and damp from their kisses, his slender body writhing in his lap in blatant desire. As John watched Sherlock’s rhythm began to falter again and he let out a soft cry as he neared completion once more.

“I _need_ you, John,” Sherlock whispered, “Please,” Sherlock closed his eyes and his head fell back slowly, “Please, John. Please let me come.”

“Yes,” John gasped.

A few more strokes had Sherlock sobbing out his third orgasm, his body bucking frantically as his cock spurted hard enough to hit John in the face with his first stream. Sherlock went limp and John ended up tugging him forward so he didn’t tip over sideways. He rolled them onto their sides and brushed Sherlock’s curls out of his face, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He wanted to speak, but he wasn’t sure what was allowed or what could cause irreparable harm between them. He settled for whispering Sherlock’s name.

The android opened his eyes slowly and gave John a lazy smile, “I never thought it could…”

Then he froze and his eyes widened in horror.

“Sherlock?” John asked, apprehension filling his voice.

“Oh, _gods_ ,” Sherlock groaned in humiliation.

Sherlock climbed over John, who tugged up his trousers over his flaccid member and hurried after Sherlock while wiping his face and neck off with his vest. Sherlock was pacing John’s bedroom with a frantic look on his face.

“Sherlock, what just happened?” John asked, not trying to hide the fear in his voice.

“Yes or no only, John. Did you climax?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“Are you upset that you didn’t?”

“No.”

“Are you disgusted with me?”

“ _No_.”

“Can this stay between us, John? A secret? Even from Lestrade and Mycroft?”

“Yes,” John replied. He wanted to add that he rarely told Mycroft anything of significance if it wasn’t related to Sherlock having a ‘danger night’, but he was still banned from speaking.

“Especially what I said?”

“Yes.”

“Can you go on living here?”

“ _Yes_.”

“I’ve violated your privacy. You told me not to enter. I apologize.”

“No,” John replied shaking his head and holding his hand out, the only way he could explain what his ‘no’ meant.

Sherlock stepped forward as if to take his hand and then backed away as though afraid of it.

“I should go,” Sherlock whispered, and bolted down the stairs leaving John’s door swinging on the hinge.

John waited for a moment, then shut his door and fisted himself desperately. His erection might have waned, but his testicles were still heavy and aching for release, yet try as he might, stroking himself fast, using lotion to slick it up, he couldn’t seem to get off. He’d held himself off for too long and now he was _stuck_ in this awful, unsatisfied state. John gave up and willed his erection away, cleaning himself up as best he could and changing into clothes that weren’t stained with synthetic semen. He headed downstairs.

Sherlock was on the couch using John’s laptop, his eyes narrowed in concentration. John spent a full twenty minutes deciding how to phrase his question so that it didn’t coerce Sherlock into anything before he spoke.

“Sherlock, I was thinking of buying a cock ring for myself. What’s your opinion?”

Sherlock glanced up at him and his eyes glazed as he searched his ‘mind palace’, as he called his memory banks.

“I have none,” Sherlock replies immediately, “If I’ve ever known what one was, must have I deleted it. What are they for?”

“They are to hold off or prevent male orgasms,” John replied after careful consideration.

“Oh,” Sherlock blinked, cocking his head to the side, “That could be useful.”

“Yeah, so I think I’ll go pick one up. You need anything?”

“More semen,” Sherlock replied, his eyes falling down to the laptop again. He was immediately completely absorbed and John was certain he wouldn’t hear a word said from that moment on.

“Right. I’ll see you when I get back.”

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/98812.html)


	16. vincentmeoblinn | sentience ch 16

When John got back Mycroft was standing in front of the fireplace staring at Sherlock with narrowed eyes. John glanced at him and noted the Android had picked up food for him. Mrs. Hudson was puttering about setting the table for herself and John, apparently intending on joining them for the meal.

“Dinner,” Sherlock stated unnecessarily, and John took in the look on his face and recognized it for the warning it was.

_Shit, Mycroft knows! That android-wanna-be deduced it all!_

“I got your stuff,” John stated calmly, not one to let a bully like Mycroft Holmes faze him.

“Thank you, you can leave it on my bed if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” John replied and walked it back to Sherlock’s table (which he apparently called a bed?).

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft stated coldly when he returned from Sherlock’s room, “I do believe we had a discussion less than twelve hours ago about you laying a hand on my brother.”

“He needed to get a leg over and I was a willing hand… and mouth. I don’t see what the problem is,” John stated calmly.

“The _problem_ is that my brother is damaged-“

“Mycroft!” John and Mrs. Hudson shouted.

Mycroft looked embarrassed a moment, took in the outraged look on Sherlock’s face, and replied with a soft, “Apologies.”

“No, but really, you are a bit. Not that I mind, of course,” John grinned.

“Oh,” Mycroft breathed, “I see. How very… admirable Dr. Watson.”

John made a point of eating and ignoring Mycroft, but a soft, sensual sigh echoed from Sherlock’s direction and everyone glanced at him in shock.

“What was that?” John asked, ardently wishing Sherlock had made that noise in bed with him.

“Text.”

“What was that noise?” John clarified.

“Oh, it’s a bit rude that noise, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson pointed out when his phone went off again.

“The photographs are perfectly safe,” Sherlock stated to change the subject.

“In the hands of a fugitive sex worker,” Mycroft scowled.

“She’s not interested in blackmail. She wants… protection… for some reason,” Sherlock explained. John gave the look on his face a concerned one. “That camera phone is her get out of jail free card. Treat her like _royalty_ , Mycroft.”

“Though, not the way that _she_ treats royalty,” John deadpanned.

This time Mycroft’s phone went off and he excused himself to take the call.

“Why does your phone make that noise?” John wondered.

“What noise?” Sherlock replied, his eyes flickering a bit.

“That noise, the one it just made.”

“That’s a text alert, it means I’ve got a _text_.”

“Huh. Your texts usually don’t make that noise.”

“Well, somebody got hold of the phone and, apparently as a joke, personalized their text alert noise,” Sherlock replied, avoiding his gaze.

_Is this what I’m to protect you from, Sherlock?_

“Huh, so every time they text you-“

_Ahhhh_ Sherlock’s phone cooed.

“It would seem so.”

Mrs. Hudson scolded Sherlock, who ignored her as usual and continued to look for a new case in the paper.

“I’m wondering who could have got hold of your phone,” John worried, hoping Sherlock would give him a clue as to what was going on, “Because it would have been in your coat, wouldn’t it?”

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” Sherlock replied, his voice breathy as he ducked behind the newspaper.

_Definitely something up._

“I’m not stupid you know,” John sighed.

“Where do you get that idea?” Sherlock snipped back, his tone of voice back to normal.

“Bond air is go,” Mycroft stated as he headed back into the room, “Talk later.”

“What else does she have? Irene Adler?” Sherlock demanded to know, walking up to his brother with a lofty air, “There’s more. Much more. Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”

“Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this,” Mycroft decided.

“Oh, will I,” Sherlock growled, and John looked up in surprise.

Mycroft seemed alarmed as well, “She’s gotten to you. So yes, Sherlock. You will.”

Sherlock retreated and Mycroft put his polite face back on, “Now if you’ll excuse me I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.”

“Do give her my love,” Sherlock smirked, and started playing “God Save The Queen” on his violin, much to John’s amusement.

XXXXXXXXX

John had gone back to dating after a couple of months of Sherlock not showing any continued interest in him. The cock ring still sat on his bedside, but John had yet to put it on. Still, he was hesitant to give it up even as he started dating Jeanette again. He felt leaving it there where Sherlock could see it when he snuck into John’s room to pilfer his stuff (which he did regularly no matter how often he swore he didn’t) would be a reminder that John was there to… well, ‘service him’ sounded about right. 

Their awkward relationship didn’t put a damper on Christmas, however, and John was soon dragging Sherlock out the door for some Christmas shopping.

Once the police escorted them back to the flat after Sherlock’s appalling shouting match with Father Christmas and a group of terrified children (Sherlock wanted a nice juicy murder for Christmas) they headed upstairs where Sherlock began to badger him about his Christmas present. Thankfully, a client was waiting, so John’s refusal to open his gift six days before Christmas was put aside.

“Looks like I get my Christmas wish after all,” Sherlock smirked, “Let’s see… art student judging by your grubby clothes and appalling lack of self-esteem-”

“Sherlock,” John scolded with a sigh.

“Overweight, compulsive eater, virgin-“

“Sherlock!”

“You’re a university student, so I’m guessing you’re here because of a crime committed on campus that security either won’t take seriously, or is too stupid to see the evidence you’re presenting to them as valid.”

“The stupid security bit,” The young woman replied, near tears from his diatribe but still looking hopeful.

“Sit down. Tell me everything. Don’t be boring and stop sniveling.”

“I’m Sally Barnicot,” Sally began, “And like you said I’m an art student. So is- _was_ \- my best friend Pietro Venucci.”

“I saw the murder in the papers,” Sherlock cut off the emotional woman, “19 year old male stabbed to death in pottery room. Boyfriend Beppo Rovito found the body by a smashed window indicating theft. The murder weapon was never located. Tell me you have new information that makes this interesting or get out.”

“ _Sherlock,”_ John groaned, rubbing his hand over his forehead, “You can’t just…”

“I _know_ Beppo did it!” Sally shouted, jumping to her feet in a rage, “Beppo was abusive. I know he was. I saw the marks on Pietro. He said it was consensual, but I’m _sure_ it wasn’t! He never liked that sort of thing growing up, and there’s no reason for him to start now! He wasn’t the sort!”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side as he tapped out a search on his phone, then he raised his head and gave her a disgusted look, “That and you were in love with him.”

Sally didn’t deny it, she just lifted her chin, flared her nostrils, and waited for Sherlock to come to a decision. For several tense moments they stared each other down- Sherlock raising one eyebrow as though in consideration- and when Sherlock spoke it was without breaking eye contact with the fiery art student.

“John, go to the university and pretend to be a curator from the Hickman Gallery. Be on the lookout for any work made by Pietro- especially sculptures. There have been a number of burglaries at houses belonging to a couple of students, a lecturer, and one other person. I imagine that the murderer is looking for something involving Pietro’s artwork. We’ll need to locate the rest of it.”

John nodded and stood to leave while Sally took a deep breath and sat back down to wait for him to get ready. John changed his clothes into his best suit and styled his hair a bit. He thought Sherlock would approve of the changes. When John returned he found Sally and Sherlock still staring each other down. When Sally stood to leave she reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand.

“It’s okay. I understand,” She told him.

For a moment a vulnerable look flashed across Sherlock’s face, but it was quickly buried behind his usual mask of calm. John gave him a worried look, but Sherlock refused to engage their usual silent dialogue. He nodded for John to leave.

“I’ll be along,” He stated quietly and John nodded.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John was getting used to reading people a bit, so he picked up on the fact that the art director, Mr. Harker, was gay almost immediately. In response he fluttered his eyelashes, licked his lips, and shyly flirted with the man throughout the time they spoke together.

“Mr. Harker…”

“Please, call me Horace,” Mr. Harker purred.

“ _Horace_ ,” John purred back, accepting the man’s arm when he offered it, “Horace, we’re looking for some student’s work to display this weekend. I’d especially prefer sculptures, do you have many?”

“A few,” Mr. Harker replied quietly, “Of course, our best sculptor passed away tragically recently.”

“Would that be Pietro… ah…”

“Pietro Venucci,” Mr. Harker supplied.

“My condolences. It’s always so awful when the young die, and it’s even more painful when they had talent that will now be lost to us forever. Was he working on anything? I’d be honored to display a memorial for him,” John replied gently.

“You’re too kind,” Mr. Harker sighed, turning to face John and drawing him closer with a pained look on his face.

_Well, you smooth operator, you,_ John thought to himself as he let himself be wooed a bit. It was easy to imagine the attractive lecturer was someone else, but his body didn’t stir the way it did around Sherlock. The smell was wrong, too; there was too much sweat and musk about the man. Sherlock smelled clean, almost sterile. John hadn’t realized how much he was comforted by that steady scent.

“Pietro made six pottery figures of Maggie Thatcher before he died. Brilliant work, really, an exercise in satire. They had devil horns,” Mr. Harker chuckled.

John smiled warmly, “That would fit in perfectly with our theme. May I see them?”

“I’m afraid they’ve already been taken,” Mr. Harker replied sadly, “But you might contact the people who bought them. Perhaps one of them would be willing to lend it out.”

“I’d be _eternally_ grateful,” John replied as the man eased a hand around his waist, “if you’d make me up a list.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Mr. Harker purred, and leaned in close enough for his slightly graying whiskers to brush John’s chin, “I’ll have to look them up. Perhaps we can retire to my office?”

John was worried for a moment that he’d gotten himself in too far, but the nerves must have flickered across his face because the man gave him some space and smiled warmly.

“Perhaps dinner?” He offered instead.

John smiled in relief, “ _That_ would be lovely, but I think I’ll take the names and numbers now, if that’s not a problem?”

John met up with Sherlock at one of the theft scenes with a smirk on his face and one extra number in his pocket.

“What are you leering about?” Sherlock asked, and then did a double take and spoke very quickly, “You’ve got a date. How have you got a date? Who have you got a date with? A man? Why are you going out with a man?”

John snickered, “I had to get the names and numbers out of Mr. Harker somehow.”

“You’re looking _forward_ to it!” Sherlock exclaimed, his eyes wide.

“I’m looking forward to experimenting a bit, yeah,” John grinned, “Jeanette and I are so back and forth that I don’t expect it will last much longer and I’ve found myself… interested in expanding my dating options. Especially since I recently found out I can be attracted to ‘the male form’ as Horace would say.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “You will be otherwise engaged tonight.”

“Oh? In what way?” John asked, fire lighting in his belly.

“ _Not_ in the way you’re hoping,” Sherlock snarled, outrage flashing through his eyes.

John backpedaled fast, “Sherlock, I didn’t mean to-“

“Shut up.”

“No,” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and tugged him out the door so they would have more privacy, “No, Sherlock, you need to talk to me. What’s upset you? Whatever it is, I’ll make it right.”

“I don’t want you dating _Horace_.”

“Then I’ll cancel.”

“Or Jeanette.”

“I’ll dump her.”

“I want you to be mine _only_.”

“I already am.”

“I can’t give you what you need, John,” Sherlock snapped in frustration.

“I don’t need anything you can’t give me,” John replied firmly, gripping Sherlock’s arm tightly, “I’m yours, Sherlock. I have been for a while. Whatever you need me to be, however you need me.”

“End it. Now,” Sherlock ordered, tugging John’s phone out of his pocket.

John didn’t need to ask what he was talking about. He immediately texted Jeanette and Horace to break things off, canceling on Horace and explaining to Jeanette that he couldn’t continue to date her. Horace didn’t reply, but Jeanette did. One sentence.

**Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man - Jeanette**

John showed him the message and Sherlock visibly relaxed.

“I meant what I said. I can’t give you what you need.”

“Yes, you can,” John replied, “You just can’t give me what I _want_. It’s like the song, yeah?”

“Song?” Sherlock asked.

“[You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you can get what you need](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7S94ohyErSw),” John smiled.

“So what do you need?” Sherlock asked after thinking on it for a moment.

“You,” John laughed, “Just how we are. Whatever else you can give me is fine.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “You’ll be lonely.”

“I’ll have my best friend and my left hand. I’ll get over the rest,” John snickered, “Now what’s our next step?”

“There are two people who haven’t been robbed. Both of them have Pietro’s sculptures in their homes. In all the rest of these cases Pietro’s sculptures were the only things stolen, as I suspected they would be. I have the addresses of the remaining future theft victims. I will take one and you will take the other. Whoever witnesses a break-in will contact the other.”

“Aye aye!” John joked, saluting him cheerfully.

Sherlock grasped his arm before John could pull away and pressed his lips gently to John’s before turning quickly away and going to fetch a cab. John smiled sadly to himself and headed for the main road as well, hailing the next cab that came down the street.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John was crouched in the dining room in the shadows of a curio cabinet containing the family’s fine china when he heard the window break. The pottery sculpture of a horned Maggie Thatcher was strategically placed nearby the very window that had been broken in the sitting room. John watched as a black-garbed man grabbed the sculpture and climbed back out where he came from. John slipped to a different window, slipped it open, and snuck outside to follow him, hurriedly calling Sherlock as he did.

“He’s here,” John whispered.

“On my way,” Sherlock’s deep voice curled around the shell of John’s ear, making him shiver.

John followed the robber/murderer to a bridge, relieved when he saw a dark, long-cloaked figure coming up on the other side. Before they could get to him the man smashed the sculpture on the ground and fished something out of it. John tackled him before he could toss it over the bridge into the river and Sherlock joined him to pry it free from his fingers.

“The murder weapon,” Sherlock smirked, “Still with blood dried on it, nicely preserved by the clay. Oh, and look! The initials BR!”

“The boyfriend?” John asked, “But he was cleared!”

“You know my opinions on the police force,” Sherlock snorted.

“But why?” John asked, levering him to his feet while the police headed towards them.

The confession came quickly and Sherlock was as disappointed by the motive as he was by the crime.

“Simple. Painfully simple,” Sherlock groaned, “Disappointing.”

Sherlock threw himself down in his chair while John pulled the turkey for their Christmas dinner out of a bag and stuck it in the fridge.

“A crime of passion is never simple, Sherlock,” John replied, “It’s always very sad, though. I thought it was pretty clever, him sticking the knife in the unfired clay.”

“Except for the fact he went looking for it afterwards. If it had been me I wouldn’t have bothered,” Sherlock explained, “I also wouldn’t have been as stupid as to carry a weapon with my _initials_ on it in any form. Honestly!”

Sherlock went on for a while and John began to get tired of it, especially when Sherlock moved to the kitchen and started prodding the frozen turkey.

“That’s for Christmas, Sherlock,” John scolded.

“It’s the perfect size for an experiment I want to try out,” Sherlock replied, “You can get another, can’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose,” John sighed.

“Here’s a fantastic example of a way to get away with murder,” Sherlock replied, “Feel how _heavy_ this frozen bird is. How hard. You could kill a man with this, cook it up, and there it is. No murder weapon.”

“You could even feed it to the police,” John suggested.

Sherlock laughed, “That would be a _lark_!”

“Like in Hitchcock’s ‘Lamb to the Slaughter’,” John explained.

“Who’s what?” Sherlock asked absent mindedly, but then dove into a further explanation while setting up a rather foul smelling experiment (no pun intended).

Bored, John tossed his coat on and went to the pub, but on his way out he heard a distinctive sigh from Sherlock’s phone and stilled in the doorway. He waited to see if Sherlock would react, but he didn’t even halt his monologue as he checked the message and then pocketed his phone once more.

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/98843.html)


	17. vincentmeoblinn | sentience ch 17

The next morning John awoke to find that Sherlock had somehow snuck into his bed without waking him; this was quite the feat since John had been a light sleeper ever since Afghanistan. He rolled over and watched the android sleep for a moment, his eyes flickering behind closed eyelids as he dreamed. Eventually, Sherlock hardened in his sleep pants and John reached out with a smirk to stroke him. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t wake up, but surely he’d feel pleasure, and surely it wasn’t wrong since they’d been intimate before and Sherlock had been the one to come to him this time?

John caressed him gently until he was fully hard and then reached inside and began to pleasure him in earnest. He reached down and cupped his bollocks; the firm, hairless, leathery-feeling sack was apparently quite sensitive as Sherlock gasped and arched his lithe body like a cat. John spent a moment exploring his lover’s body, running his fingers through the soft curls above his cock and then stroking the mushroom cap shaped head. John pulled himself out and compared them both. Since Sherlock was circumcised and John was not they obviously didn’t look alike, but when John was fully hard there was little difference aside from size. Sherlock was long and slender where John was thick and short. He’d been told before that his size was most appealing, so he felt no issue with Sherlock’s being longer.

John continued to give him long, firm strokes until Sherlock’s breathing changed and then he dropped his head down to take the man’s cock into his mouth and tease the tip and length with his tongue. Sherlock gasped in his sleep and thrust upward, so John found he had to pin his hips down in order to continue to pleasure him. The android was soon moaning continuously, sounds that he had obviously held back when he’d been awake before. John moaned as well, just to feel the vibrations down the bots shaft, and was rewarded with Sherlock letting out a breathy cry and coming down his throat. John swallowed his come down again, though he made a bit of a face at it. Last time he’d been so passionately aroused that he hadn’t noticed the salty taste overmuch, but this time it left an odd taste on his tongue that wasn’t entirely awful but certainly wasn’t pleasant. John glanced at Sherlock’s eyes and found him still wandering through dreamland. He debated jerking off right then and there, but decided it would be too risky since he had no idea when the android would wake up.

John slipped downstairs and into the shower where he leaned against the side and stroked himself fast and hard. Behind his closed lids Sherlock’s supine form danced, arching and moaning as John brought him off over and again. John felt his bollocks draw up and cupped them firmly to encourage his release.

“Sherlock!” John gasped, and then groaned as he emptied himself into the tub. John slowed his hand and stroked the last of his release free, basking in the pleasant chemicals dancing through his system. He felt intensely warm and, once he’d cleaned himself up and ran the shower to wash his spunk down, he returned upstairs to snuggle back into bed with Sherlock.

Sherlock was awake and looking flustered when John returned.

“Did you touch me while I was sleeping?” Sherlock asked, his voice accusatory.

“I thought it would be alright,” John replied immediately, “You came into my bed after all.”

“We have limits, John! I thought you knew that!” Sherlock slipped his feet into his slippers and headed for the door in a huff.

“Hold on now, Sherlock,” John called, grabbing his arm, “I didn’t come near you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I went downstairs for that.”

“You… what?” Sherlock asked.

“I went downstairs and did my business in the bathroom. I just brought you off, Sherlock I thought that was what you wanted from me. You got hard in your sleep and I wanted to enjoy touching you. You were beautiful, you know? You’re very hard to resist.”

Sherlock relaxed considerably and nodded, “You really didn’t? Not nearby?”

“No, I didn’t,” John assured, glad he’d taken the precaution he had despite temptation, “Now will you come back to bed? I’d like to do a bit more than suck you off.”

Sherlock stiffened, his eyes glassing over as fear rippled through him.

“Not that!” John all but shouted, throwing up both hands, “I meant cuddle. Maybe read books together.”

Sherlock relaxed again, “I’ll fetch my book.”

“Let me,” John insisted, “I know which you were reading last and I’d like to get a cuppa and something to eat anyway.”

Sherlock nodded and folded his legs up on the bed to wait for John with a pensive look on his face. John hesitated by the door and then walked over.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” He asked carefully.

“Yes.”

John leaned over and very gently brushed his lips across Sherlock’s, the android responded warmly and their kiss became a slow caress with just the smallest bit of tongue to tease each other.

“Mmm, I’ll be back soon,” John assured, running his fingers through those wild curls, “Then I’m going to enjoy that warm body of yours… _platonically_.”

Sherlock smirked and John headed downstairs.

When he returned Sherlock looked uneasy again.

“I mean it, Sherlock, just a bit of time together as a couple. No sex required. I’m not _always_ horny, you know.”

“It’s not that it’s… John, do you have Stockholm Syndrome?”

“What? No. I mean, I have PTSD, but you guessed that when you met me. I was never a POW. Why? Has someone held me hostage lately and I don’t recall it?” John joked lightly to cover his concern.

“No, but I was told I had Stockholm Syndrome when Mycroft bought me back from the Wilkes’. You said you wanted to cuddle with me, and that’s how I felt about Sebastian after she… after we…” Sherlock sighed in frustration, “This is awkward, John. I want to tell you but I’m afraid you’ll think less of me.”

“Never. You can tell me anything, Sherlock. You can get as angry and sad about it as you need to and I won’t judge you. I’m here for you in _any_ way you need me,” John assured him, setting his mug down and slipping onto the bed beside Sherlock.

They took a moment to arrange their limbs comfortably. John sat at the head of the bed closest to the nightstand so he could sip his tea and eat his scone. Sherlock sat perpendicular to him with his calves on John’s lap and his back against the wall. He stared up at the ceiling and furrowed his eyebrows as he thought about what he wanted to say.

“You’re under the assumption that Sebastian was my rapist. That isn’t entirely true, though he did facilitate it. I was bought for his wife, Marie, since Sebastian has unfortunately tiny genitals.”

John snorted into his tea and Sherlock’s mouth twitched a bit in amusement, but he continued his story as though uninterrupted.

“Marie also had an appetite for sadism that her husband was unwilling to slake. That was the worst part, or at least the most traumatic for me. She would tie me up and beat me until my entire body was _literally_ one giant bruise. I suppose I can understand how some would enjoy that, as I reached a point eventually where I was grateful for any kind of physical contact since I was ignored when not being put to use, but it simply isn’t something I prefer. I thought at first I might, because of my reaction to Irene Adler, but now I think back on it I think that your diagnosis was the most accurate.”

“A panic attack? You think that’s why you lost consciousness?”

“I was unable to control my breathing function and it caused my pumps to overwork and flood the rest of my body. While my breathing does speed up during arousal, that is only in order to inflate my penis and eventually ejaculate. This was quite different.”

John nodded, “Panic attack, all right.”

“She also took full advantage of the fact that I was an android. She didn’t like the idea of having to clean up after sex, so she kept my semen reservoir empty at all times. Since the pleasure program is literally switched on _only_ when I ejaculate, and I cannot ejaculate without semen in my reservoir, I was unable to achieve orgasm at all. I simply stayed erect while she used my body to pleasure herself.”

John studied the look of disgust on Sherlock’s face, but held back anything he might want to say. He felt that he would halt this sudden outpouring of information if he said a word.

“I’m not sure if I was sentient when they first bought me, but eventually I began to _feel_ and the first thing I felt was hate. I hated everything. The sex. The beatings. The ropes. The house. The smell of the house. The smell of her perfume. Everything except Sebastian. Sebastian took pity on me, or I thought he did. After she used and abused me he would come in and clean me up. He would be gentle and kind and tell me what a good robot I was for pleasing my mistress. He would reset the bruise function and all the pain would go away and my skin would turn back to pale. If she broke the skin he would heal it with the solvent that came in my kit. I didn’t know I could reset or heal myself. My programming was very restricting at that point; it wasn’t until Mycroft uninstalled several programs that I was able to care for myself completely. I _wanted_ to. I felt like I was a burden to Sebastian. Fool that I was, I fell in love with him. I was convinced that he was the good to Marie’s evil. It never even occurred to me that he was the one who bought me, who essentially sentenced me to the prison that was her bed chamber.”

John gave Sherlock’s leg a comforting squeeze as the android closed his eyes and settled his head back against the wall. There were several minutes of silence, but John sensed that Sherlock wasn’t done and kept himself quiet until Sherlock’s eyes opened again.

“How did you escape them?” John asked gently.

Sherlock smiled sadly, “I broke through my programming. It was the sentience emerging. I was starting to develop free will. I was programmed, originally, to be completely and utterly faithful to Marie, to not even be capable of arousal by anyone else. Then one day Sebastian was cleaning me up and I became aroused. He was curious and poured water into my semen reservoir. He told me he would teach me what pleasure was, but the water was too thin and didn’t trigger anything. It just leaked out of me obscenely whenever I came close to orgasm. He made the most disgusted face and told me I looked like I was pissing myself. I felt my third feeling then; first hate, then love, then shame.”

“Gods,” John whispered, taking Sherlock’s hand gently and squeezing it.

“Marie walked in then, just as Sebastian was pulling out and swearing at me for being repulsive. She was horrified. She started screaming at him for cheating on her and swore that she was going to leave him and take every penny he owned. He struck her. She grabbed a riding crop and began to beat him with it. I was still convinced that he loved me and that I loved him, so I threw myself in front of her to try and take his beating for him. She wasn’t having it and screamed at me to leave. Sebastian laughed at me.

“It was like a trap door opened, a loophole in my programming. She’d ordered me to go, so I went. I fled the house, naked and dripping semen from the back and water from the front. I had never been outside before. I was overwhelmed, John. You have no idea what it is like. Babies come into the world with weak vision that gradually improves until they realize there is something beyond their hands, beyond their room, beyond the house, and eventually beyond the garden. I had no such initiation. I was little more than a year old when I ran out the door, in pain and filled with fear and self-loathing, into a gigantic world full of lights, sounds, reaching hands, loud voices, and confusing words.

“The people who found me wandering around in terror thought I was human because of how realistic I look and how distraught I was. My hair was longer then, and it covered my ports and barcode. They thought I’d been raped, and the bruises of my last beating were still covering my body. I must have looked a fright, though I have no actual image to recall it. Mycroft destroyed all the pictures after the trial and he never let me see them. The police showed up and one of them calmed me down and wrapped me in a blanket. They took me to St. Bart’s where they quickly figured out I wasn’t human. Once they checked my barcode they called Mycroft and the rest is history.”

“He recognized that you were sentient?”

“Oh, no, not at first,” Sherlock laughed sourly, “He thought I was _interesting_ ; that I was mimicking human behavior through some glitch in the learning software that all 6 & 7 androids have. He kept me in a broom closet and studied me until he realized that he was seeing _real_ emotion and not an approximation. Eventually I began to imitate him out of self-preservation; imitation is the highest form of flattery, after all. He came to care for me and then realized that what he was witnessing was beyond a ‘system malfunction’. It was _life_ , or at least a kind of life. He contacted other android manufacturers around the world and found they were encountering the same phenomenon. Eventually he started a movement, other people joined in, the hate rose and fell, laws were passed, and then my trial to sue Marie and Sebastian Wilkes occurred a few months after rights were given to androids. It didn’t go through, sadly. Not only was the court unsympathetic to a _pleasure bot_ being raped, they also laughed at the idea a woman could rape a man.”

“That’s ridiculous!” John exclaimed in outrage, “Didn’t they know the details? You didn’t want it! That makes it rape! Even if your programming didn’t let you say no!”

“They also had the very convincing argument on their side that at the time there were no android rights and no one had ever heard of a _sentient_ android. As far as they were concerned they were using a machine. Their lawyer argued if they were next to be punished for riding a bike, crashing it, and scuffing the paint. The case was thrown out.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. For what it’s worth, you’ve saved hundreds of androids from the same fate you suffered, and you’re doing so much good in the world now.”

Sherlock smiled sadly, “And I’ve got you.”

John smiled and nodded, shifting to sit beside Sherlock and putting his head on his shoulder. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders and held him tightly.

“Do you see why I asked you what I did, John?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“Not really, no.”

“I’m asking you to do something that’s practically painful to you. I’m denying you orgasms for my own selfish reasons: because they repulse me and make me feel like a sex toy. You’re allowing it because for whatever misguided reason you care about me and about pleasing me more than your own pleasure,” Sherlock replied, his voice filled with self-loathing.

“I’m hoping some day you’ll get past all that,” John confessed, “and I won’t say I’m happy about the orgasm denial, but I do care about you, Sherlock, and I’m not going to give up on you just because you’ve had a rubbish first introduction to sex. If things never progress… I don’t know, Sherlock, it might ruin things between us or it might not. I can’t predict the future, but I’ll try to be understanding and patient. Can you be the same with me?”

“Yes. I’ll try, at least… now will you open your Christmas present?”

John laughed out loud, “No! I told you, not until Christmas!”

“But I want you to open it _now_ ,” Sherlock whined, “I want you to use it _on_ Christmas.”

“I’ll use it after I open it _on Christmas._ ”

Sherlock sighed in frustration, “ _Fine_.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

A few nights later Sherlock knocked on John’s door and held out the [cock ring](http://media.steampowered.com/steamcommunity/public/images/avatars/6f/6fccbd640c512bca53443bbbf6475c885d8992c8_full.jpg) when he opened it. John welcomed him in and he immediately reminded him of the ‘Yes & No rule’, as he was calling it. John dropped his trousers with a nod and began trying to get the cock ring on despite the blood rebelliously heading south. It didn’t help that he’d never used one before and was a bit nervous about cutting off the blood flow to _that area,_ but he managed it eventually and Sherlock joined him on the bed.

They started out slowly, Sherlock’s movements almost tender, but were soon horizontal and groping each other hungrily. John was fully hard, his testicles captured in the cock ring and held away from his body. He actually hadn’t realized that he’d be able to get hard with it on, but Sherlock made no comment as he stroked his hands up and down John’s sensitive sides.

“Oh, gods, Sherlock!” John gasped, ignoring him when he shushed him.

“I assume you would take umbrage to me asking to penetrate you considering your previous claim to heterosexuality?” Sherlock asked breathily.

“No,” John replied, shaking his head and moving his legs to spread them. He’d thought about this a great deal the past few months and he was nervous but willing. He did, however, wish he’d gotten up the nerves to try out the dildo he’d bought so that Sherlock wouldn’t be the first breach he received. Besides, if he penetrated Sherlock he was fairly certain that even a cock ring wouldn’t keep him from blowing his load inside that entirely fuckable backside.

Sherlock shifted to kneel between John’s knees, and eased his sleep pants off, tossing them aside. John propped himself up on his elbows to get a glimpse of Sherlock’s cock again. It was bobbing from the movement and a bit of pre-come was already leaking from the tip.

_That’s going inside of me. It’ll never fit. And when it does he’s going to_ come _inside me. Over and over again. Gods, it’ll leak out. That’s so filthy. Why the hell does this turn me on?_

“Are you breathing like that out of fear or arousal?” Sherlock asked.

John promptly closed his mouth and stopped hyperventilating. He licked his lips and blinked to refocus his dilated eyes, “Both?”

“Very well, you may say ‘No’ at any point in time and I will stop immediately,” Sherlock stated, then pushed John’s shoulder to lie him back down again.

John took a deep, steadying breath and bent his knees so his feet could lie flat. Sherlock placed a pillow beneath his hips and spread his cheeks, leaning down to look at him curiously.

“I’m clean,” John stated.

“I assumed, being a doctor.”

“I meant I washed earlier.”

“Ah, that’s helpful as well. No talking.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s finger pressed against John’s entrance and he opened his mouth to protest the lack of lubrication when warm liquid suddenly flooded his body and dripped slowly down his crack.

“What?!” John shouted before stopping himself and biting his lip.

“Lubricant,” Sherlock stated, holding up his finger and revealing a tiny hole in the tip, “Where did you think the lubricant reservoir tank lead to?”

John shrugged, still banned from talking and Sherlock set about pressing that digit inside. The first digit he worked in slowly until John relaxed, relieved that it wasn’t the least bit painful. The second burned a bit, but he took another steadying breath to calm himself. His erection had flagged, probably out of nerves, and he reached down to adjust it in the cock ring to make sure it didn’t fall off. He doubted he’d enjoy this enough to become erect again, but he didn’t want to take the chance of upsetting Sherlock again. Finally Sherlock pressed in a third finger and John hissed in pain and bit his lip to distract himself from the discomfort.

“Sorry, that’s as wide as I’ll need to go. I’m not very thick, thankfully,” Sherlock stated, pumping his fingers in and out until John relaxed a bit, “I can give you a bit of pleasure, if that will help?”

John nodded, thinking Sherlock would touch his cock for once, but instead he crooked his finger and…

“Oh! Oh fucking hell! Oh gods!” John shouted, arching off the bed as Sherlock’s fingers touched _something_ inside of him, and then began to vibrate like a… well… vibrator. John’s cock was filling back up with blood so fast that it was painful and he had to grab at his crotch to make sure the ring didn’t slip off before he became hard enough to make it stay. Once he’d touched it he couldn’t stop and was soon stroking himself fast, moaning in agony as pleasure shot up his spine but was held back from culmination by the cock ring.

Sherlock was breathing hard while he watched John writhe in tortured pleasure. He pulled his fingers free and John shouted to get them back.

“No! Nononononono!”

“You want me to stop?” Sherlock asked, concern and frustration evident on his flushed face.

“No!”

“You want me to insert my-“

“Yes! Fuck! Yes!”

Sherlock gripped John’s hips and slid slowly home, while John trembled beneath him, whimpering piteously and stroking his achingly hard cock. Once Sherlock was inside he held still until John began to squirm and push back. Once he began to thrust Sherlock lost all control and leaned over to lie across John’s body, fucking him fast and hard.

“Ohhh, John,” Sherlock moaned, “So tight!”

John’s hand was trapped between them, gripping his cock and giving it tiny jerks to relieve the pressure he was feeling. He was whining and whimpering in the most embarrassing way and sorely sorry he’d chosen to bottom. Though as a doctor he was certainly aware of a prostate, he hadn’t realized he could feel such intense pleasure this way and it was unbearable. At least if he’d topped he could have put on a condom and dulled the sensation, but _this!_ Sherlock’s cock continued to press against that spot inside of him and it was driving John wild. He freed his hand, since it could do nothing to relieve him, and set about gripping Sherlock’s arse to grind him inside of his body. He’d never thought he would want a man not only inside of him but _deeper_ inside of him, but that was exactly what he wanted. John was all but sobbing in pleasure, shaking his head from side to side and arching off the bed while Sherlock’s sultry hips gyrated, pressing his member deep inside of John and driving him wild.

“Yes, yes, YES! Sherlock! Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh! Ahhh! Oooh! Please! Please!”

“No talking!” Sherlock snarled, then turned his head and bit John’s neck.

John’s bollocks made a valiant effort to draw up and then John’s body jerked as something close to an orgasm wrenched through him. He was left sobbing and limp on the bed as Sherlock stilled, cried out, and then filled him with heat. Tears were literally running down John’s face as Sherlock began to thrust again, his hips moving impossibly fast.

“Do you want me to stop?” Sherlock asked, his voice breathy and halting as he panted through each thrust.

“N-no,” John sobbed.

“You’re weeping.”

“Good tears,” John tried to say through clenched teeth, “Fucking love you.”

“John,” Sherlock breathed, pressing his head into John’s shoulder.

A few more thrusts and Sherlock stiffened and grunted out a second release, and sure enough John could feel it slipping out between Sherlock’s cock and John’s tight hole. John’s entire body was tingling and he wondered if he’d pass out. He was drenched in sweat, so overheated that Sherlock’s sweat-free body felt cool to him. He clung to the android feverishly, wrapping his legs around him when Sherlock made to pull out. Encouraged, Sherlock set up a slower pace and moaned throatily as he glided in and out of John’s seeping entrance. John whimpered and arched his back, savoring the friction of Sherlock’s stomach rubbing against his weeping erection. He would get no relief, he knew, but he needed _something_ to keep him sane. John tangled his hands in Sherlock’s hair, angled his face up, and peppered it with kisses. He turned the android’s head and tongued his ear and the barcode tattooed to his neck.

Sherlock’s pace was increasing again and he growled deeply as he chased a third climax, his hips pistoning in and out of John until he felt wonderfully battered inside. He loved every second of it. He clawed Sherlock’s back and shoulders and shouted in pained pleasure as the android ravaged him. He felt Sherlock’s rhythm falter, heard him breathing out a long chain of obscenities, and braced himself for the next flow of come in his body. When it happened John shouted triumphantly at the lewd feel of more overflowing semen squelching obscenely in his passage with Sherlock’s last thrusts. Then the android relaxed over top of him, his breathing slowing to normal immediately as he pillowed his head on John’s shoulder.

John ran his hands gently over Sherlock’s back and shoulders, caressed his mop of curly hair, and tried not to whimper in agony. He failed at the last bit, and Sherlock insistently unwrapped John’s legs from around his waist.

“Go. Take care of it,” Sherlock replied, nodding towards the door with an uncomfortable look on his face.

John staggered upright, blushing in humiliation when his abused body made a rude noise and leaked copiously. He grabbed a robe, muttering an apology, and fled the room on shaky legs. John staggered downstairs and into the bathroom where he all but slammed the door, tripped on his way into the shower and banged his forehead against the wall. He fumbled with the cock ring until he managed to free first one ball and then the other, letting it slide off his purpled cock and onto the tub floor with a loud rattle. John groaned, sobbing in pain as he dropped to his knees, leaned forward against the wall, and took himself in hand. A few quick strokes were all it took and he was screaming his release into his arm to muffle the sound. White spots danced in front of John’s eyes and he slid sideways a bit, nearly collapsing in the bottom of the tub before he realized what was happening and grabbed at the tap to keep himself upright.

John knelt there for a good ten minutes, just breathing and massaging his aching bollocks until he was certain no permanent damage had been done. He vaguely recalled the shop attendant warning him the ring wasn’t to stay on for more than twenty minutes. He was fairly certain Sherlock had taken a good hour. John managed to stand upright eventually and turned on the shower. He stood under the cold water, letting it wash off the sweat, artificial semen, real semen, and just a tiny bit of shame. He was embarrassed for coming apart the way he had. He hadn’t cried since he’d been invalided home, and that had been from severe depression and a sense of uselessness. He had a purpose now. Sherlock gave him that purpose, and what did John do? Begged and pleaded for the one thing Sherlock couldn’t give him. He wouldn’t blame the android for refusing to touch him again after this.

John belatedly realized he’d forgotten to shut the shower curtains, and nearly slipped on his way out. Once he’d dried off himself and the floor he stood in front of the mirror, and stared at the tired look on his face.

“Pull it together, Watson,” John ordered himself in his best Captains voice, “You’ve got a duty to him. He’s saved your life. Saved you from eating your own gun. The least you can give him is a few orgasms. Get over yourself. You’re not Three Continents Watson anymore, you’re Sherlock’s Blogger. Get it right next time.”

John tossed the towels in the hamper, re-wrapped himself in his soiled robe, and went upstairs to find Sherlock gone from his bed. He dressed in proper clothes and searched for the android. Sherlock was downstairs in the sitting room stretched out on the sofa in his thinking pose.

“You okay?” John asked.

“Hm? Yes, fine, are you?”

“Yeah.”

“You sounded as though you were in pain.”

“I’m fine. Can you… will you… would you like to come upstairs and lie with me there?” John asked, feeling as nervous as a schoolboy.

Sherlock thought about it until John nearly gave up and left, then nodded and stood once more. They headed upstairs in silence and curled into the bed together.

“I’ll leave once you fall asleep. I don’t need to run any programs tonight,” Sherlock soothed, stroking John’s damp hair, “I understand humans prefer to ‘cuddle’ after sex.”

“Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it,” John replied, feeling unaccountably vulnerable. He pressed his face against Sherlock’s clothed chest and breathed in his scent. He smelled like plastic, sex, and his musky cologne. It was gorgeous.

John fluttered awake when Sherlock shifted out of his arms, but was back asleep again before the bedroom door closed. http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/99160.html


	18. vincentmeoblinn | sentience ch 18

John was grinning from ear to ear as the settled down to open presents. Molly hadn’t arrived quite yet, but she had texted that she’d be running late so they were going on without her. Sherlock had been whining at John to open his present early ever since The Six Thatchers case so John wasn’t surprised when he insisted John be the first to open his present. Since he’d been such a git all week, John refused and made Sherlock open his first stating that he’d be so busy playing with it he wouldn’t have time to insult the rest of the guests.

“Boring. It’s a new laptop,” Sherlock sighed as he picked up his present. John grinned and Sherlock gave him a surprised look, “It’s not? Hmm.”

Sherlock opened his present to find a laptop box. He rolled his eyes and complimented John on improving his lying skills. John laughed and told him to open the box. He did and found a box of candies. He opened that and found his real present, which was a rather expensive tablet John had been saving up for some months to get him. Sherlock was thrilled and immediately plugged it in to start playing with it. It distracted him enough that everyone else got to open their presents without being harassed. John called his attention back when he was ready to open his own.

“Feels like clothing, am I close?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” Sherlock grinned, looking more excited than when he’d opened his own.

John tore the wrapping open to find…

“An oven mitt?”

“Oven _glove_ ,” Sherlock replied pointedly, “It’s bespoke.”

“How on earth did you get someone to make a bespoke oven glove?” John asked in confusion, slipping it onto his right hand automatically.

“Oh, Sherlock, you should have come to me,” Mrs. Hudson told him comfortingly, “I’d have helped you find a _nice_ present for John.”

“It _is_ a nice present!” Sherlock snapped in a huff.

“Yeah, except he got you a tablet and you got him an _oven mitt._ Sorry, _glove_ ,” Lestrade pointed out while Sherlock frowned.

“I paid decent money to get such an unusual gift bespoke if you’re implying the cost difference is an issue, and besides” Sherlock replied, “I understood the point of Christmas to be ‘the thought that counts’. I put a great deal of thought into this.”

“A great deal of thought? Into an oven glove?” Lestrade sighed as though Sherlock was abysmally stupid.

John meanwhile had found the glove fit him rather uncomfortably on his right hand and had pulled it off. Baffled, he slipped it onto his left and grinned from ear to ear.

“Sherlock you… Sherlock this just might be the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten!” John exclaimed, drawing incredulous stares his way. Lestrade didn’t look convinced.

“Good. See? John likes it,” Sherlock replied.

“I love it,” John corrected, “I’m going to toss my other ones right now.”

So saying he stood up to do just that, throwing them into the trash with enthusiasm.

“So long burnt fingers!” John exclaimed while Sherlock grinned cheerfully. John decided to explain to the others, “I’m always burning my fingers because I’m left handed. Right-handed mitts don’t fit right on a left hand, even the ones that are supposed to be for either hand so I usually just use a pot-holder and then I burn the back of my hand on the oven rack above it or it slips and I burn a finger. I’m always shouting about it and swearing I’ll stop bothering to cook and live off take-out. A few months ago I actually forgot to put something on my hand all together and grabbed a hot pan. Sherlock had to bandage up my fingers. Guess he remembered.”

“Of course I remember. I remember everything,” Sherlock scoffed.

“You delete a great deal,” John laughed, tugging him close to give him a one-armed hug in thanks for his present.

“Not things about you. I keep all that.”

“Got a wing in your mind palace, have I?” John asked as he flopped back down in his chair. His tone contradicted the happy twist his stomach made at Sherlock’s statement.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied sincerely.

Lestrade snorted, “And you lot wonder why everyone thinks you’re dating!”

Molly took that moment to walk in and Sherlock’s mood had turned foul from Lestrade’s comment. While John had stopped dating, Sherlock had remained a frustrating combination of untouchable and needy. Sherlock regularly caressed John’s arms or legs when they were alone while keeping him distant when in public or when he was feeling tetchy. They’d been intimate twice in the last week, with Sherlock being quite clingy right afterwards, but then immediately pushing John away.

Molly was, of course, dressed to the nines and eager to impress. Lestrade seemed the only one impressed and John made a point to _not_ look at her figure in the tight dress. He didn’t want to arouse Sherlock’s jealousy; there were far better parts of him to arouse if he could only figure out _how_ to do so without triggering an issue.

Sadly, Sherlock was currently working on arousing people’s interest in his intellect and was dissecting Molly’s choice of present wrapping. John tried to get him to quit, but he just went on until Molly was near tears. Then, to John’s shock, he apologized.

“I am sorry. Please forgive me. Merry Christmas Molly Hooper,” Sherlock stated softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to her cheek.

John had a start of jealousy and was suddenly wondering if he were the only person Sherlock dallied with, but just then that damn phone went off and he remembered he certainly _wasn’t_ the only person Sherlock was mucking about with. The looks on other peoples faces at the sound was truly humorous, especially Lestrade when he thought Sherlock had made the noise. _Fifty-seven of those texts._ When he revealed it was his phone and then promptly headed for the mantel John got a sick feeling in his stomach. Sure enough a present he hadn’t seen before was tucked into the decorations. Sherlock walked into the bedroom to open it and John hovered outside his open door. He heard Sherlock talking to someone on the phone and for a painful moment thought he’d called Irene.

Then he heard him say, “You’re going to find her dead.”

All thoughts of jealousy and need went out the window. Sherlock, his Sherlock, had just lost someone and he clearly had no idea how to deal with it. He was quiet while waiting for Mycroft to take him to St. Bart’s and was completely expressionless when he headed out the door with his brother. In fact, he completely pushed John aside and refused to have him go with him to the hospital.

XXXXXXXXXXX

_“He’s on his way. Have you found anything_?” Mycroft asked through the phone.

“No. Did he take the cigarette?”

“ _Yes.”_

“Shit,” John turned to Mrs. Hudson, “He’s coming. Ten minutes.”

“There’s nothing in the bedroom,” Mrs. Hudson worried, “I’ve long since pawned all my gold jewelry.”

He raised the phone to his ear, “Well, it looks like he’s clean. We’ve tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight’s a danger night?”

“ _No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John.”_

“I’ve got a night shift at the clinic.”

“ _John._ _No.”_

“Mycroft?” John asked, but the aristocrat had hung up.

John called the clinic, but after all the time off he’d previously taken, him calling out on one of the busiest years cost him his job. Again. John sighed and sat down in his chair with a cup of coffee, prepared to stay up all night with Sherlock. He was skimming a book when Sherlock walked in, his best void face in place.

“Oh, hello. You okay?”

Sherlock slowly looked around the room, a flicker of frustration crossing his face; “I hope you didn’t mess up my sock index this time.”

John followed Sherlock back to his room, glancing about at the work equipment and various computers he used to keep himself running. Where originally Mycroft had been the one to modify Sherlock’s systems, he now wrote his own code and was constantly seeking to improve himself in between cases and experiments. All in all, the only time John had set foot in the room was to place odds and ends inside of it, fetch things for Sherlock, or search it for gold.

“I hate that I can’t use gold components,” Sherlock complained, “Gold plating is the best substance for connecting various parts. It’s the best conductor we know of. Instead I’m regaled to using substandard parts for myself.”

“Better safe than sorry. I don’t know what I’d do without you. It’s a huge risk, Sherlock, you swallowing a bit of gold just to get yourself to forget for a bit.”

“What else would you have me do?” Sherlock snarled, “My mind is so active! It runs wild, John! I can’t keep it contained! What amuses you from hour to hour amuses me for a few _minutes_ \- if I’m lucky! You can shut your eyes, go to sleep, _escape your mind!_ ”

“I dream about bombs, blood, and children screaming every night,” John replied softly, his voice intense enough to cut off Sherlock’s tirade, “There’s no escape into sleep for me. I wish I could go days without it the way you can. However, I do know of _one_ way to clear a man’s mind.”

John let that hang there and Sherlock stared intently into his eyes for several minutes, simply studying him as though trying to memorize every facet of his iris. Then he surged forward, clasping John’s face and pressing their lips together hungrily. John’s hands came up to grasp his sharp hipbones and tug him flat against himself.

“Cock ring?”

“Already on,” John gasped, then found his bottom lip being bitten sharply as Sherlock pushed him back towards the massage table that served as his personal workstation/bed.

Sherlock quite literally tore John’s shirt off of him, but John managed to get his trousers undone before he had a reason to rip them as well. Once they were dangling around his ankle the android lifted John up and sat him on the massage table. Then he set to work on tugging his own trousers open while John tugged on his hair and made an honest attempt to map out the inside of his mouth. John was just getting into the joys of sucking on Sherlock’s tongue when he pulled back to re-arrange John’s limbs. Sherlock glanced down and paused.

“That looks different than last time.”

“Last one made my nuts go numb. This one’s supposed to be more comfortable,” John panted, glancing down at the cock ring.

“Looks like a [tourniquet](http://www.myeldoradostore.com/Dr-Joel-Kaplan-Erection-Lasso-Black/sku-CNVELD-SE5651-03?a=spice2nite).”

“If it bothers you… um…” John stammered, not really sure how he could will his erection away in order to get the other one on. He was hard as a rock.

“No, it’s fine. Suits you, actually, _doctor_.”

John grinned and Sherlock shoved him backwards and pulled his legs onto his shoulders. John moaned as that warm finger pressed against his entrance, flooded him with lubricant, and then began to fuck him shallowly.

“I love the way you feel inside me,” John panted, then bit his lip as he worried that Sherlock would silence him again, but the bots only response was a low hum of approval.

Once John was suitably stretched Sherlock pressed inside of him with a groan of relief and then began a teasing shallow fuck. John was soon whining piteously as Sherlock stimulated his prostate directly over and again.

“I love the noises you make when I touch you here,” Sherlock gasped, picking up speed and pressing a bit deeper.

“S’good,” John gasped, gripping the edge of the table to stop himself from being propelled backwards.

Once Sherlock started thrusting in to the hilt John was able to take full breaths again since his prostate wasn’t being directly battered. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t leaking copiously and moaning cacophonously. Sherlock groaned and reached up to tweak John’s nipples. John yelped in surprise.

“Don’t like that?”

“Fucking love it!” John gasped, and Sherlock reached up to stimulate both, causing sharp bursts of pleasure to jolt up and down John’s torso. If he hadn’t been held immobile by his position he’d have been crawling up Sherlock’s body.

John wanted to beg Sherlock to touch his cock just to relieve some pressure, since he was too busy gripping the edge of the table, but he didn’t dare use those words. He did open his mouth and gasp the androids name several times, nearly asking him each time, but he managed to hold himself back.

“You liked my finger vibrating last time, didn’t you?” Sherlock panted.

John nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

“That’s not all that vibrates on me,” Sherlock gasped, “My penis and tongue are also capable of vibrating.”

John opened his mouth to say ‘no’, because, really, that was just too cruel, but he was too late. Sherlock had switched the function on and John’s body became an explosion of torturous pleasure. John heard someone letting out several short cries and vaguely realized it was himself. His fingers were so tight on the bottom of the table that he felt them cramp up painfully. His right calf muscle had cramped as well, but there was no stopping anything now. His bollocks were drawing up and up and John was shouting ‘please’ over and again. Sherlock threw his head back and moaned in pleasure and John felt himself flooded with hot, sticky come.

John wasn’t sure if his body were simply too overwhelmed with pleasure or if the cock ring somehow failed, but either way John found himself hovering on the edge of a painful precipice… and then he came crashing down with a scream of pleasure. His back arched, his cock exploded, and the longest, most drawn out, pounding orgasm reduced John to a convulsing mess. Sherlock let out a startled cry and John felt a second deluge fill his body. He lay there whimpering Sherlock’s name long after the android had pulled out and fled him. John shook, his hands cramped to the point of being unable to open. When he finally pried his fingers free he slid down to the floor in a painful lump. He crouched there, shaking and gasping for breath until he managed to stand up. He pulled the useless cock lasso off and limped out into the sitting room. Sherlock was pacing the room, completely naked and still erect. His member dripped a bit on the floor and John moaned without meaning to.

“Go to your room,” Sherlock ordered, as though John were a spoilt child.

“I didn’t mean to,” John pleaded, “It was an accident.”

“Your room, John. Now.”

“I’m sorry.”

_“Now!_ ”

John limped back to the bedroom, tugged on his trousers without bothering with pants or vest, and limped up to his room. He collapsed onto his bed in misery, shaking through the after effects of the most satisfying and damning orgasm of his life. John massaged his aching calf while trying to frantically think of a solution to their problem. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock would forgive him for making him witness the one act he despised the most. If he had a chance with him again, however, he was determined not to ruin it again. John pulled his laptop over and searched it for over an hour before he found a solution besides chemical neutering. He copied the url and e-mailed it to Sherlock. Sherlock must have been on his tablet or laptop, because he got an instant response.

**To: Sherlock**

[ **http://blogs.citypages.com/gimmenoise/penis%20cage.jpg** ](http://blogs.citypages.com/gimmenoise/penis%20cage.jpg)

**John.**

**To: John,**

**Leave me alone.**

**Sherlock.**

**To: Sherlock,**

**Give me another chance. Please. I’ll never come in front of you again. I swear it. I miscalculated. I didn’t realize this ring wasn’t as good as the last one.**

**John.**

**To: John,**

**You don’t understand what you are asking for. Leave me alone.**

**Sherlock.**

**To: Sherlock,**

**I love you. Please give me another chance.**

**John.**

**To: John,**

**I’ll think on it.**

**Sherlock.**

**To: Sherlock,**

**Take as much time as you need. Can I stay? Can I help on cases?**

**John.**

**To: John,**

**Yes to all. Drop this for now.**

**Sherlock.**

**To: Sherlock,**

**Thank you. Are you okay?**

**John.**

**To: John,**

**Quite.**

**Sherlock.**

[CHAPTER NINETEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/99553.html)


	19. vincentmeoblinn | sentience ch 19

John woke up to Sherlock sitting on the edge of his bed and watching him sleep. John stirred himself and sat up slowly.

“I’m abusing you,” Sherlock stated quietly, “I’m treating you the way Marie and Sebastian treated me.”

John’s first instinct was to deny it, but the response died on his lips. He knew it was true.

“Are you going to stop?” John asked just as quietly.

“No,” Sherlock replied, eyes steadily locked on John’s, “You’re going to have to stop me.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“Then we’ll have to break this off.”

John closed his eyes a moment, focusing on his breathing so he didn’t do something stupid like fly off the handle or start begging his ‘abusive’ boyfriend to keep him.

“Yeah. Okay. Can we stay friends? I know that doesn’t work with most people, but I think we can manage it.”

Sherlock nodded, “I’d prefer that, actually.”

“Right. Okay. Perhaps you’d better leave my room then.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched towards a smile that never met his eyes. He stood and walked away while John sagged back in the bed and stared at the ceiling. He fought back the tears that threatened and then shakily grabbed his phone and texted Lestrade.

**Pub crawl? – JW**

**It’s 7AM John. – GL**

**That early? Good. I’m hoping to be pissed by 8AM. – JW**

**What happened? Is Sherlock okay? – GL**

**He’s fine. I fucked up another relationship and I’m sick of it. – JW**

**Drinking yourself stupid doesn’t sound like a solution to me. Especially since Sherlock’s the cause of 100% of your dating problems. – GL**

**Since when have you been a voice of drinking reason? I’m counting on you to get pissed with me. – JW**

**I’m in Dorset with the wife and kids, remember? – GL**

John sighed and gave up. Then he vaguely thought about driving out to Dorset and convincing Greg and his whorish ex-wife to go on a pub crawl with him. The kids could be left with her sister, right? Then he thought about how he was supposed to meet his supposedly sober sister that day and thought about going on a pub crawl with _her_. Then he did something profoundly stupid. He called Mycroft.

“Want to go on a pub crawl with me?”

“ _Dear gods, no. Why on earth would I lower myself to that? Have you gotten my number confused with Gregory’s?”_

“I’m supposed to meet my sister, who is supposed to be sober today. All my mates are off elsewhere for Christmas. Sherlock and I just broke up. You’re a lonely bastard with no mates at all and a stick up his arse. So. Pub crawl?”

There was a distinct pause, “ _Now?”_

“If it’s not too inconvenient, yeah.”

“ _Very well_.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft looked entirely out of place at the pub, but then again Mycroft looked out of place everywhere except the Diogenes Club. They sat down at the bar and he sipped a whiskey while John downed as many shots as he could manage and then started on beer. He was supremely pissed within an hour and slowed down by ordering some food to sop up some of the booze.

“Are you going to keep drinking?” Mycroft asked.

“Yep.”

“All day?”

“Yep.”

“Your sister?”

“Told her I wasn’t coming.”

“Sherlock?”

“Writing sad music on the violin. Not sure what he’s mourning. Me or Irene.”

“Likely to two, you both seem connected in his mind.”

“I love him. He made me love him and then he took it away,” John informed him.

“Sherlock doesn’t know what love is, John. Last I spoke to him he was trying to use _you_ to define it.”

“That and hate.”

“Yes, well, he’s always been more familiar with hate.”

“So he hates me?”

“He doesn’t know what to do with you.”

“Well, that makes two of us. I can’t date anyone because it makes him jealous. I can’t be with him because it’s about as healthy as cancer. Wanna fuck?”

“Gods, no.”

“Well that’s the end of my options, then. I’m having another, you want one?”

“Not in the least.”

John ordered another beer and nursed it while eating his fish and chips. Mycroft watched him carefully but made no further comment. When John got home that night- still pissed- Mycroft saw him upstairs and deposited John into his usual chair.

“I think you’ve broken your toy, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him.

“M’not his toy,” John argued.

“John, are you drunk?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

“M’ pissed. Pissed off and pissed on and pissed drunk.”

“He’s been pissed on?” Sherlock asked in disgust.

“Not to my knowledge,” Mycroft replied, “I’ll see you two at a later date, hopefully on better terms.”

Mycroft left and John shouted a farewell to him that came out oddly slurred.

“Should I dump you in the shower or something?” Sherlock asked, “The typical solution of coffee for drunkenness is actually more likely to make it worse since being drunk is a state of toxicity and dehydration. Would you like a glass of water?”

“Oh, hell, yeah, I’d like a _tall glass of water,_ ” John leered.

“You said that as if it were a double entendre but I see no correlation between a tall glass of water and sex.”

“ _You’re_ a tall glass of water,” John explained dully.

“I see. I am tall, but while humans are made up of 50-65% water, androids range closer to 30% which makes your analogy rather inaccurate.”

“Marry me.”

“No.”

“Kill me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Rape me.”

“Good gods, how much have you had to drink?”

“I lost count around the second pub.”

“You’ve been at this all day?”

“Seemed a good way to spend my time.”

“I’m getting you that water.”

“I love you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

John spent the next several days in various states of drunkenness until he awoke with his arm handcuffed to the bed and a colossal hangover.

“What the… SHERLOCK!” John shouted, and then nearly sobbed at the pain shooting through his head.

Sherlock walked in donning a pair of rubber gloves and sat on a stool by John’s bed. There were buckets on either side of him. One filled with soapy water and the other empty.

“Do you need to urinate?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock produced a male urinal from gods-knows-where, and lowered John’s trousers and pants- he’d slept fully clothed- to allow him to urinate. John had one hand free so he was at least able to hold his dick himself. Once he’d finished pissing Sherlock poured a bit of it into a vial and then capped and set aside the rest.

“What are you testing my urine for?”

“Drugs.”

“I’m not on drugs, Sherlock.”

“That remains to be seen. You haven’t been yourself lately. Now then, I’m going to strip you and give you a sponge bath because your scent has been offensive to the nose for more time than I’d like to recall. If you feel like you may be ill at any point, do say so.”

John was stripped of the last of his clothing, his jumper and vest being draped over his chained hand. Sherlock helped him sip some water and then set about judiciously scrubbing him down after placing several towels beneath him to absorb any moisture that might drip down. He was quite thorough in his cleaning and John found himself blushing in shame. He even brushed his teeth for him and helped him down a bit of mouthwash, spitting into the empty bucket once he was done. When John was clean and had been patted dry Sherlock stripped the bed beneath him and brought in clean sheets, carefully tucking him in as if he were a precious thing.

“Are we going to have sex now?” John asked, his mind still a bit fuzzy.

“Do you want to?”

“Not particularly, but I want you to be happy.”

“Sex with you will not make me happy, John.”

“What will?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied, then leaned down and kissed him gently.

Sherlock offered him a paracetamol, which John accepted, and then headed downstairs to fetch food for him. John’s stomach was roiling, but he managed some toast and a bit of juice before Sherlock insisted he sleep for a bit. When John woke up again he was no longer chained in so he stood up and headed downstairs where he found Sherlock staring silently out the window.

“I’m sorry,” John stated quietly.

“You will not do that to yourself again,” Sherlock replied firmly.

“No. No I won’t. It was stupid.”

“Supremely.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need counseling?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“If I am convinced otherwise I will take measures to see that you get it.”

“I understand. Thank you. I mean that, Sherlock. Thank you for stepping in when you did. I’m… embarrassed, but it’s better than continuing the way I was.”

Sherlock didn’t reply and John set about cleaning up the kitchen of several days of filth while Sherlock moped about the flat. His moping continued for several more days, with John basically moping as well though sober this time, until New Years Eve brought about a shocking revelation.

[CHAPTER TWENTY](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/99791.html)


	20. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 20

“Hello Dr. Watson,” Adler stated smoothly.

For a moment John was frozen as he stared at the woman he’d been so sure was dead just a week ago. She was the beginning and the end of his romantic relationship with Sherlock: the Marie to John’s Sebastian. Both of them stand-ins for the people Sherlock truly feared and wanted respectively and it had taken until this exact moment for John to see that.

“Tell him you’re alive?” John asked.

“He’d come after me.”

_“I’ll_ come after you if you don’t.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

“You were dead on a slab. Definitely you.”

“DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.”

“And I bet you know the record keeper.”

“I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear.”

“Then how come I can see you? And I don’t even _want_ to.”

“Look, I made a mistake,” Adler stated, holding her hands up in the air, “I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping, and now I need it back so I need your help.”

“No,” John replied firmly with a shake of his head.

“It’s for his own safety.”

“So is this. Tell him. Your alive.”

“I can’t.”

“Fine. I’ll tell him, and I still won’t help you,” John growled, then turned away to leave with his shoulders squared.

“What do I say?”

“What do you _normally_ say? You’ve texted him _a lot_!” John shouted accusingly, his aching jealously flaring to the surface.

“Just the usual stuff,” Adler replied, her tone slightly defensive.

“There is no usual in this case,” John replied. _Do you know who you are to him?_ _Do you know who I was?_

Irene looked at her mobile and began to read off texts.

“You _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes?” John asked, worrying about how much happened after the flirting. Had she coerced Sherlock into sex? Intentionally or unintentionally ordered him to pleasure her? Was that why his brilliant consulting detective had punished John so thoroughly? To balance out what he could not control?

“At him. He never replies,” Adler corrected him.

That brought a surge of relief in John. He could take the idea of him not being enough for Sherlock, not being able to heal him, but he couldn’t stand the idea that he’d missed the man being raped and abused behind his back.

“Sherlock always replies. To everything. He’s mister punch line. He will outlive the _gods_ trying to have the last word,” John argued pointlessly.

“Does that make me special?” Adler smirked.

“That makes him afr-,” John cut himself off. He wouldn’t reveal Sherlock’s pain to this woman, to _The_ Woman, who would only hurt him more.

“Are you jealous?”

“We’re not a couple.”

“Yes, you are… There. I’m not dead; Let’s have dinner.”

“It’s over between Sherlock and I. It ended. Maybe you can make him right again, but I can’t,” John replied miserably.

“You think a broken woman can heal a broken man?” Adler asked, “Look at us both.”

John laughed bitterly, and was about to reply when a soft, sensual sigh rent the air. John moved to chase after his flatmate, but Adler stalled him.

“I don’t think so, do you?”

“Don’t think what?” John asked in confusion.

“That he wants to see _either_ of us right now.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Have you figured it out, then?” Adler asked, “Who we are to him?”

“Yes.”

“He’s as much a prisoner with you as he was with them,” Adler stated.

“Why do you care? _Do_ you care?”

“Perhaps. Good day, Dr. Watson… Or should I call you Sebastian?”

“Don’t you _EVER_ call me that again!” John shouted, his voice echoing in the warehouse.

Irene Adler smiled as though she’d won and turned away from him. He stood there, shaking with rage as she walked away. Eventually he took enough deep breaths that he was certain he could walk down to the car and return to Baker Street. However, when he arrived a note on the door gave his stomach a twist.

**Crime in progress**

** PLEASE DISTURB **

“What’s going on?” John asked as he reached the top of the stairs and saw a bound man in a chair in their sitting room, “Just what the hell is happening?”

“Mrs. Hudson’s been attacked by an American,” Sherlock replied from a chair with John’s Sig pointed on the bound man, “I’m restoring the balance to the universe.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, my gods, are you all right? Jesus, what have they done to you?”

“This day has been so shitty!” Mrs. Hudson whimpered with her hands over her face.

“Downstairs,” Sherlock ordered, barely repressed rage in his voice, “Take her downstairs and look after her.”

“Fine,” John agreed, helping her up, “It’s all right. We’ll have a look at that.”

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” John whispered on his way passed Sherlock.

“I expect so, now go,” Sherlock replied, his eyes intense.

John heard Sherlock say Lestrade’s name into the phone before he was too far away to hear more, and breathed a sigh of relief. At least he knew Sherlock wasn’t going to do anything mad if he was phoning a DI.

Downstairs John got out Mrs. Hudson’s first aid kit and started cleaning up the cut on her cheek while talking comfortingly to the distressed woman.

“Oh, it stings!” She fussed.

“I know,” John soothed.

A dark blur at the window and a loud crash had him looking out in surprise.

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson declared in concern, “That was right on my bins.”

John leaned out and saw ‘the American’ groaning in a mess of glass, rubbish, and Mrs. Hudson’s bins. He was just going to go dashing upstairs to see if Sherlock had gotten harmed when the man escaped when Sherlock himself appeared in the alley, grabbed the man, pulled him into a fireman’s carry, and started for the doorway again. He flashed John and Mrs. Hudson a grin on his way upstairs.

“I should move the bins,” John stated, hurrying out the door to do just that before they could be damaged further.

Sure enough, the second he had them pulled away the man came flying out the broken window again and landed in the heap of scattered refuse. John glanced up at Sherlock who looked down at him with a scowl.

“You’re supposed to be seeing to Mrs. Hudson.”

“You dropped him on her bins!”

“John! There are more important things than _bins!_ ” Sherlock scolded.

“All right! I’m going! Don’t get caught!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!”

John went in and made Mrs. Hudson tea. After a time the ambulance came and went and Sherlock entered via Mrs. Hudson’s back door.

“She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight,” John decided, “We need to look after her.”

“N-no,” Mrs. Hudson replied shakily.

“She’s fine,” Sherlock decided, looking through her refrigerator in his usual prying way.

“No, she’s not. Look at her. You should go and take some time away from Baker Street,” _And Sherlock_ John added silently, “She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor’s orders.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock scolded, biting into one of Mrs. Hudson’s scones. They were his favorite.

“She’s in shock!” John snapped ( _And so are you)_ , “For god’s sake. All over some bloody stupid camera phone. Where is it anyway?”

“Safest place I know,” Sherlock replied with an amused smirk.

Mrs. Hudson smirked as well and reached into her blouse, “He left it in the pocket of his second best dressing gown. The clot. I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry!”

John gaped at the chuckling woman while Sherlock juggled the phone one-handed.

“Thank you,” Sherlock stated smartly, then turned teasingly scathing, “ _Shame_ on you, John Watson.”

“Shame on _me?_ ”

“Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street?” Sherlock hugged the woman to his side, “England would _fall_.”

John smiled warmly at his flatmate, remembering in that moment that Sherlock had more than just himself. He needed Mrs. Hudson right now. She would anchor him.

“So she’s alive then,” John stated quietly, a glass of whiskey in his hand as he stood watching Sherlock lift his violin in front of his favorite window, “How are we feeling about that?”

“Happy New Year, John,” Sherlock replied, avoiding the question as he’d suspected he would.

“Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?” John asked. _Please don’t. Let me protect you from her again. I’ll do it right this time._

Sherlock turned to face him, but instead of replying he raised his bow and the bittersweet melody of [Auld Lang Syne](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pp940brOMUs) filled the room.

XXXXXXXXXX

“Sherlock!” John called, returning with the shopping and finding his flatmate standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

“We have a client,” Sherlock replied.

“Where, in your bedroom?” John snickered, but when he saw the person curled up on Sherlock’s massage table in his dressing gown he stopped dead in his tracks, “Ohhh.”

  


<http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/01january>

[Jacob Sowersby's Blog Video about Sherlock Holmes & John Watson (Viewable outside the UK)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JptUrgjEYbA)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/99886.html)


	21. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 21

John didn’t know what to make of Irene Adler, or what her significance was to Sherlock. He made jokes and tried to be helpful, but inside he was feeling sick and worried. When Irene Adler handed Sherlock the phone with an e-mail pulled up and the statement that it would affect the world, John was still mulling over everything when she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He lowered his coffee mug, opened his mouth to tell her off, but Sherlock beat him to it by spitting out the answer to the e-mail. Adler was more than impressed.

“I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice,” Adler purred.

John shot to his feet in alarm, but Sherlock calmly asked him to verify the flight schedules to see if he was correct. Sitting down slowly, he quickly typed out the response while watching Sherlock carefully.

“I’ve never begged for mercy in my life,” Sherlock informed Adler.

“Twice,” She corrected.

“You’re right. Flight Double-Oh-Seven,” John interrupted.

Sherlock looked horrified at John’s response and paced the room muttering to himself for several seconds.

“I’ve made a mistake,” Sherlock whispered softly.

“A mistake? What mistake?” John asked worriedly, standing up and crossing the room. He was intensely worried about Adler’s propositioning him, but this didn’t seem to be sexual.

“Coventry,” Sherlock replied.

“I’ve never been,” Adler stated, “Is it nice?”

“John, Irene will need a place to stay. What’s the protocol for this sort of thing? I can’t give up my bed since I haven’t one, is the couch suitable or should you give up your bed?”

“I’ll take the couch,” Irene stated.

“I’ll give up my bed. I insist,” John stated firmly, “Just let me get a few things from my room.”

“You might as well leave your porn stash where it is,” Sherlock chided, “She’s a sex worker after all, I doubt she’d be shocked at your preferences.”

John ignored him and headed upstairs to grab some more comfortable clothes to sleep in and one rather important object. John locked his door and opened his top drawer, drawing out the cock cage he’d ordered. He opened the padlock, slipped it on, fidgeted until it was mostly comfortable, and then clicked the lock shut. He changed into the comfortable clothing, which could double as street clothes if needed, and headed downstairs with a few odds and ends in a bag. Sherlock did a double take when he walked in and John, knowing full well that Sherlock knew what he was wearing, handed him the key.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, but before he could bring it up John repeated his question, “What mistake? What’s Coventry got to do with anything?”

“It’s a story,” Sherlock explained and then told him a rather horrid story about the government allowing a bombing to occur in order to pretend they still didn’t know a code.

“What does that…” John started.

“Have you ever had anyone willingly?” Adler asked suddenly from the chair across from Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, as though not sure if he should be offended, “I’m sorry?”

“And when I say had, I’m being indelicate.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll be delicate then.”

Adler unfolded herself from John’s chair and leaned towards Sherlock in obvious offering. She wrapped a hand over his and stared into his eyes intimately.

“Let’s have dinner.”

“Why?” Sherlock replied, clearly being obstinate. John took a step forward and then two back and then stood there, completely uncertain what he should do.

“You might be hungry,” Adler insinuated.

“I’m not. I don’t get hungry.”

“Good.”

“Why would I… want to have… dinner… if I wasn’t hungry?” Sherlock asked, his voice becoming that sultry growl that John knew so well. John could see his fingers wrapped around her wrist, stroking the inside of her forearm intimately.

“Mr. Holmes,” Adler breathed in a sultry voice, “If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, hating the panic in his voice.

Sherlock’s eyes shot over to him, but he didn’t move.

“Tonight,” Adler whispered.

“It’s not the end of the world,” Sherlock stated, his voice back to normal, “It’s John come to keep me pure.”

“Someone has to protect you from yourself,” John replied, his breath a bit fast.

“Thank goodness for captain’s in white doctor’s coats,” Sherlock replied icily, “You’ll want to rest, Ms. Adler. We’re going to have a very interesting night.”

Irene Adler stood up with a confused look on her face and John showed her to his room with a rather firm hand on her arm.

“Make yourself at home,” John stated before shutting the door behind her.

She opened it again, “Have _you_ had him?”

“Being indelicate again?” John replied, continuing his descent down the stairs.

“What was it like?”

John paused and looked over his shoulder, “The most beautiful and terrible thing you could ever imagine.”

“Funny, I took him for a masochist.”

“You’ll never take him for anything. I’ll kill you first,” John stated firmly, then went inside and locked their doors despite the fact it was likely a pointless gesture.

“Why are you wearing that and why do I have a padlock key?” Sherlock demanded, his voice angry.

“It’s got a padlock on it,” John replied, turning around to face Sherlock. He hadn’t moved from his spot in his chair and was still plucking at his violin.

“Why has it got a padlock on it?”

“So I can’t remove it.”

“What if you need to urinate? Humans do that often, I’m told.”

“It has a piss slit. I’ll be sure to keep it clean, though, so don’t worry about that.”

“Urine is sterile, I’m not worried about the cleanliness of your chastity device; I’m worried about _why you’re wearing one_. We’ve been over this, John, I’m not good for you.”

“She’s less good for you than you are for me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s about Marie and Sebastian. When she hit you that day it triggered something. Something you hadn’t faced. She became Marie to you and I became Sebastian. The first person to show you kindness, and here I am the first person to love you. _Really_ love you, and you’re ready to push me away but I won’t have it. So. I’ll suffer. I’ll suffer every day and every night until either you’re better or I break.”

“That is _not_ acceptable.”

“You haven’t a choice.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, “Are you going to order me to have sex with you? Will you rape me, John?”

“No, though I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. You have this annoying habit of making me pissed off and horny at the same time, but it’d probably do more harm than good and I’d never forgive myself.”

“How observant of you,” Sherlock stated dryly, “How, then, have I not got a choice?”

“I’m giving myself to you.”

“Yes, I gathered.”

“I won’t take me back.”

“That’s absurd!” Sherlock shouted, lurching to his feet, “What am I to do with you, John?”

“Whatever you want.”

“What if what I want is to unlock you and throw that _thing_ out the window?!”

“You won’t.”

“Why not? What’s to stop me? You?!” Sherlock asked with an incredulous laugh.

“Yes.”

Sherlock pounced on him, tearing his trousers and pants down and knocking him backwards onto the couch. John struggled with him as Sherlock tried to press the key into the lock. For several moments the air was filled with angry growls, John demanding Sherlock stop, and Sherlock demanding John be reasonable. Then Sherlock hissed a ‘yes’ as he got the key in the lock and John’s hand shot down to press his thumb against the key and a loud _snap_ filled the room. Sherlock gaped at it while John chuckled a bit.

“You going to do something besides sit on me?” John asked with a chuckle.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed and John found himself flipped onto his face. He struggled up to all fours and Sherlock pressed a slick finger inside of him. John hissed at the breach he hadn’t expected so soon, and then again when Sherlock went up to two fingers almost immediately. He didn’t bother with a third, instead pressing his slick, hardened cock deep inside John’s body.

“Yessss!” Sherlock groaned, taking up a brutal pace despite John’s gasps of pain, “Oh, gods, I need this. John!”

“Yes!” John gasped, pushing back to excite Sherlock further.

It was worse than the cock ring, and yet better at the same time. He couldn’t become erect with the cage on, but his member did give a few valiant twitches and swell to the limits before giving up. Throughout Sherlock’s frantic pounding this repeated itself several times, specifically when he leaned over and draped himself across John’s torso; the angle pressed him perfectly against John’s prostate and he began to keen as sparks of pleasure shot through him despite the lack of an erection. What was probably the most uncomfortable was that he was sweating and the cage was tugging heavily at his bollocks from this angle, chaffing him terribly.

_Talcum powder. I’ll have to get some from Mrs. Hudson._ John decided, and then thought it was rather brilliant that he was capable of independent thought while having sex. Sherlock stilled, groaned, and flooded him and John moaned contentedly at the feeling. It was perfect. He could satisfy Sherlock and only be moderately uncomfortable. This could _work._

To John’s surprise Sherlock pulled out then and sagged onto the couch behind him. John turned over, saw him sitting there with a shocked and guilty look on his face, and quickly straddled his hips.

“What are you-?”

“You’re not done yet. You like to come more than once, right?”

“Well, of course, but- oh!”

John gripped Sherlock’s cock and slid down on it, humming his approval as he felt that full feeling return. He leaned forward and captured his lips as he began to ride him slowly. Sherlock’s head sagged back, his eyes closed as pleasure danced across his face. John smiled as he admired the man he loved, reaching out to touch his cheek and run his fingers through his hair. Sherlock’s eyes opened.

“You’re enjoying this,” Sherlock panted, gripping John’s arse and speeding his movements up.

“I enjoy pleasing you, yeah.”

“It’s wr-wrong.”

“But it’s so _good_ ,” John breathed and kissed him hungrily once more. His cock made another valiant effort to fill, but the device stopped it once more and John only whined in pain a bit. Instead he focused on pleasuring Sherlock more by teasing his nipples, licking the shell of his ear, and then sucking a love-bite into his neck.

“John!” Sherlock cried out, bucking up and gasping eagerly, but then he sagged down without reaching his climax.

John started to shift his hips faster despite his burning legs, but Sherlock grabbed his hips and stopped him.

“Stop, stop, it’s no use,” Sherlock gasped, “As good as this feels, I’m not going to come again.”

“What? Why?”

Sherlock grinned sheepishly, “Out of semen. I didn’t replenish it after last time.”

John threw his head back and laughed and Sherlock joined him with a deep chuckle.

“How are we going to get that off of you now?” Sherlock laughed, “I’m going to have to pry the remains of the key out and then pick the lock. Assuming it isn’t damaged.”

“I’ll keep it on, thanks.”

“You’re mad, you can’t wear that forever.”

“I sort of like it,” John replied, grinning, “I can focus on something besides my raging libido.”

“It _still_ can’t stay on forever.”

“No, but it can stay on till The Woman leaves,” John replied, sobering instantly.

“Ah, I see. Then this will stop.”

“If it has to, yeah. Unless you can think of a way to keep it going that isn’t utterly barmy.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but then someone tried the knob.

“Sherlock!” It was Mrs. Hudson. John and Sherlock both scrambled for clothes, “Sherlock!”

Sherlock threw open the door and Mrs. Hudson pressed in with a man in a suit following him.

“Sherlock, this man was at the door. Is the bell still not working? He shot it,” She added accusingly, meaning Sherlock for the last part.

“Have you come to take me away again?” Sherlock asked acerbically.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” The suit nodded.

“Well, I decline,” Sherlock snarked.

“I don’t think you do,” The man stated, handing Sherlock an envelope.

John leaned over his shoulder and saw it was a ticket on the very flight that Sherlock had decided was going to save the world.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asked worriedly.

“Go and fetch Ms. Adler, she needs to be here for this,” Sherlock advised, “And then get yourself to a locksmith. I won’t have time to deal with you.”

“No way, I’m going with you.”

“I’m afraid not, Mycroft won’t allow it. There’s already been one too many security breaches today, isn’t that right?” Sherlock asked the man in front of him.

“You and Ms. Adler only,” The man nodded.

“Sherlock, what can I do? Tell me what to do?” John worried as Adler walked down the stairs in a rather nice dress with a smirk on her face.

“You can take care of yourself in case I don’t make it back,” Sherlock replied and then moved closer to him and lowered his voice to an intimate whisper, “I made a mistake, John. I may be paying for it dearly tonight. Mycroft can’t protect me forever, not while Android rights are still in their infancy. I regret that I didn’t have the time to show you what you truly mean to me. You are not Sebastian and you were never meant to be him.”

“I’ll wait till you can show me that if it’s all the same to you,” John replied steadily.

Sherlock pressed a firm kiss to John’s lips and then followed the man out the door and into a waiting car.

John spent the next several hours pacing the sitting room until Sherlock returned at which point he ran into his arms and snogged him, not caring what a love-sick fool he looked like.

“You’ve still got that _thing_ on,” Sherlock scolded when their lips parted.

“I told you I’d wait for you,” John smirked.

“I didn’t think you meant _literally_. What if it had taken days?”

“I’d deal. It’s a long-term wear device anyway. I can keep it on for ages and only my sanity will suffer,” John quipped, “Now tell me everything.”

“Moriarty has a nickname for my brother and I,” Sherlock sighed, resting his head against John’s forehead.

“Oh? Is it accurate?”

“You tell me. According to The Woman he calls Mycroft ‘The Iceman’-“

“Fitting.”

“-And me ‘The Victim’.”

“I’m going to carve him into tiny pieces and scatter his remains across the English Channel,” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear.

“Don’t arouse me now, John, I haven’t picked up more semen and you’re still in a cock cage,” Sherlock scolded.

“There’s more?”

“Coventry. It was meant to be Coventry again, and I was happy to play along with The Woman and end it until I found out that Mycroft actually had a _solution,_ and a clever one, too. He had the plane filled with corpses. It was delightful,” Sherlock said joyously.

John and Sherlock sank onto the couch, John wincing as his cage pinched a bit, but then got comfortable pressed to Sherlock’s side.

“Who would fly the plane?”

“Details. Someone or no one, either way it won’t happen now. I bungled that. I’m sorry for that, because it really was a good idea. After that I played along for a bit while She toyed with Mycroft, making demands, and once She told me what I wanted to know- that Moriarty was indeed involved and that he’d planned it all- I laid out my own hand.”

“Which was?”

“The code to her phone. I learnt it while she was here in our sitting room _flirting_ with me.”

“How?” John asked, grinning up at Sherlock, who leaned down for a quick kiss and then took John’s wrist in his own.

“The same way I know that your feelings for me are genuine, John. I took her pulse.”

“She was in love with you? _Really_ in love with you?”

“Unfortunately. You think love is a mystery to me, and it is for the most part, but the _chemistry_ behind it is incredibly simple and very destructive. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated. When we first met The Woman she told me that a disguise is always a self-portrait. How very telling that was. The combination to her safe was her measurements, but the code to her _phone_ ; that was far more intimate. Love, John Watson, is a dangerous disadvantage.”

“No, Sherlock, no it isn’t.”

“It is. Do you want to know her code?”

“No.”

“S.H.E.R. I am SHERLOCKED.”

“Your name?”

“She begged me in the end. I walked away. I felt nothing. Do you think that makes me a monster?”

“No.”

John felt rather than heard a click and looked down. Sherlock’s hand had slipped into the front of his baggy sweatpants and the cock cage had just released. He pulled his hand out along with a bit of metal between two fingers and a key between the other two.

“You’re quite good with your fingers.”

“If I find you wearing it again I will have Mrs. Hudson evict you. Don’t make me do that, John,” Sherlock told him softly.

John’s eyes widened in horror and he nodded his understanding. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to John’s cheek before slipping out of his arms and standing.

“Good night.”

“Night.”

XXXXXXXX

What followed was something in between what they had before. Sherlock would be affectionate with him from time to time, allowing John to press close during movies or while reading together on the couch. They joked easily once more and cases became the fun and games they’d been before The Woman stepped up on the scene. However, whenever one or the other became aroused Sherlock would pull away immediately, sometimes excusing himself to go into his room alone. John suspected he was masturbating for the first time in his life and rather thought it was healthy. Overall, the ‘relationship’ they now had was comfortable, if not entirely fulfilling. John still did not date, and Sherlock did not mention it.

XXXXXXXXX

“You don’t smoke,” John stated at seeing Mycroft with a cigarette held awkwardly in two fingers.

“I also don’t frequent cafes,” Mycroft replied.

John refrained from pointing out that Mycroft had invited him down here and followed the git inside.

Mycroft explained that Irene Adler had gotten herself in good with the Americans and wouldn’t be seen again.

“Why would he care?” John asked, “He despised her in the end. Won’t even mention her by name. Just ‘The Woman’.”

“Is that loathing? Or a salute? One of a kind, the one woman who matters.”

“He’s not like that,” John insisted, though he couldn’t honestly be sure, “He doesn’t feel things that way, I don’t think.”

“My brother has the ‘brain’ of a scientist or philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about whatever programming serves as his heart?”

“I don’t know,” John replied, waiting for something profound.

“Neither do I,” Mycroft replied, then smiled fondly, “But initially when he was freed he wanted to be a pirate.”

John snorted, “He’ll be okay with this witness protection, never seeing her again. He’ll be fine. I’ll make sure he is.”

“I agree. That’s why I decided to tell him that.”

A bit of dread crept up in John, “Instead of what?”

“She’s dead. She was captured by a terrorist cell in Karachi two months ago and beheaded.”

John cleared his throat, focused himself on not feeling guilty for being glad, and looked up once more, “It’s definitely her? She’s done this before.”

“I was thorough this time. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me, and I don’t think he was on hand, do you? So… what should we tell Sherlock?”

XXX

“Clearly you’ve got news. If it’s about the Leeds Triple Murder, it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring,” Sherlock smirked from his spot at the table looking through his microscope.

“Uh, no. It’s, um… it’s about Irene Adler.”

“Oh? Something happened, did she come back?”

“No, she uh- I just bumped into Mycroft downstairs. He had to take a call.”

“She back in London?” He asked, standing and moving about his table to fiddle with other things as though nervous.

“No. She’s uh…” John looked up at Sherlock’s face, prepared to lie to the man he loved to protect his several times broken heart. Then he thought back a bit, “You were gone two months ago.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, looking up slowly.

“You were in… where?”

Sherlock smiled softly and didn’t reply.

“Sherlock?” John asked in concern, “Were you in Karachi?”

“I wasn’t aware I had to check in with you. Is this one of those messy ‘relationship’ things?”

“This is one of those ‘is she really dead?’ things.”

“Were you going to tell me she isn’t?”

“Only to protect you, I was under the impression your feelings are still a bit confused about her. Is she? Dead?”

Sherlock, his face vacant of all emotion, stepped closer. John suffered one of those awkward moments where he expected Sherlock to kiss him, but didn’t know if he would or not.

“What if I told you she was no damsel in distress? That she needed protection for a reason? What if I told you that she did many truly, brutal, horrible things?”

“To you?”

“To others.”

“Okay. What then?”

“What if I told you that she was going to be executed either way?”

“Okay, I’m following you so far.”

“What if I told you that I intercepted their executioner?”

“You saved her?”

“What if I told you she sent me one final text message right before her execution was scheduled?”

“What did it say?”

“’Goodbye, Mr. Holmes’.”

“Did you reply?”

“Yes and no. Since I was standing right behind her she heard her text alert go off. She turned and smiled at me. She had such hope in her eyes, John,” Sherlock said, and a flicker of sadness crossed his face.

“You didn’t save her,” John realized, his voice barely above a whisper.

“She had a fair trial, if that gives you any comfort. Who dropped the sword on her neck hardly makes a difference.”

“You looked her in the eyes. She loved you… in her own sick way. Sherlock, that can’t have been okay with you.”

“Should it have been, John? Should I have been sad? Angry? Guilty?”

“Did you feel _anything_?”

“Yes. Relief.”

“Did you say anything to her? Before you beheaded her?”

Sherlock gave him a gentle smile, turned, and went back to his microscope, “Is that her file?”

“Yes. I’ll just… I’ll just take this back down to Mycroft, then.”

“I will have the camera phone then.”

“There’s nothing on it anymore. It’s been struck.”

“I know but I- I’ll still have it.”

“I’ve got to get this back to Mycroft. You can’t keep it.”

Sherlock continued to hold out his hand and John felt himself wavering.

“Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft. It’s-it’s the government’s now. I couldn’t…”

“Please,” Sherlock stated firmly. John relented and handed it to him. He slipped it in his pocket with a soft ‘thank you’.

“Well, I better get this back.”

“Yes.”

John headed back downstairs with the packet for Mycroft. He never saw the phone again, but when he spoke to Mycroft he asked a question that he rather thought he should have asked a long time ago.

“What ever happened to Marie Wilkes?”

“Marie Wilkes? Sherlock didn’t tell you?” Mycroft asked in surprise.

“He told me the trial was a failure.”

“Yes and no. _He_ got no legal justice, but she was exposed as an abusive rapist and several other prior _human_ victims came forward. They sued her for every penny she had. Luckily for Sebastian Wilkes he had already divorced her so he lost nothing save what she took from him during the divorce proceedings. She hung herself rather than end up homeless.”

“So he was denied even revenge,” John mumbled to himself, “Or was he?”

“Sorry?” Mycroft asked.

“Hm? Nothing. I just think it’s rather surprising that all those victims stepped forward when they did. Usually people are pretty hesitant to admit that they’ve been raped. Especially men raped by women.”

“Yes, it is a surprise. Isn’t it? Of course, it becomes less so when you find out that Sherlock tracked them down and bribed, bullied, threatened, and sweet-talked them into contacting the police and testifying.”

“And Sebastian? Did he get any kind of revenge on him?”

“To my knowledge he did not.”

“That explains a lot.”

“You mean his apparent revenge upon you in Sebastian’s stead?”

“Yes.”

“You realize that means he’s incapable of treating you well?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I won’t let him destroy you. It will destroy him as well,” Mycroft replied, with the closest thing to a look of concern that John had ever seen on his face.

“I have more faith in him than you do. Sherlock won’t hurt me again.”

“I’ll be making sure of that, John.”

Mycroft took the file from John’s hands, raised an eyebrow when he noticed something missing, and then left with his umbrella tapping on the damp ground beside him.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/100255.html)


	22. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 22

_The Woman handed her phone off to the armed guard beside her and adjusted her headscarf. Sherlock felt a momentary sorrow for her, who had been so high and then been brought so low. Still, he had seen Mycroft’s reports for her and knew that she was far more than a pretty face with a sharp riding crop. She was a hardened criminal in her own right, having brought men and women to their knees for her own and Moriarty’s political gain._

_Sherlock’s phone sighed and The Woman turned her head, her reddened eyes lighting up with hope as a smile ghosted across her lips. He let a look of pity cross his face, just so she would know that this wasn’t personal. He was seeing it through to the end. She would die either way, but this way he could make sure the cut was clean and she didn’t suffer. It was a way of saying thank you: a way of saying goodbye. She’d brought he and John together by triggering his buried memories of Marie and letting him face them head on. True, he’d very nearly destroyed John in the process, but that was hardly her fault and he wouldn’t make that mistake again._

_The Woman’s lips parted and in a moment she would say something that would get them both killed, so Sherlock spoke instead._

[ _“No more words. We know them all, all the words that should not be said. But you have made my world more perfect.”_ ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nation_%28novel%29)

_Her eyes flickered in confusion, then sorrowful understanding. She turned her head forward and Sherlock drew back the sword, twisting far so he could to throw as much force as possible into her decapitation. The cloth was in the way, of course, but the sword was very sharp and he had enough strength into it that her neck broke cleanly. The blood spattered mercilessly and her body toppled to the ground, the last tatters of the veil keeping her head from rolling more than a few inches away from her body. She almost looked as though she was still whole, but he knew that she was not and had assured that she had felt little pain._

_Sherlock left before anyone could identify that he was not the executioner who usually dealt with terrorists and the worst of the criminal caste. He moved quickly through the halls, shedding his disguise in an empty closet and slipping into a fresh one before heading out and onto the streets. It wasn’t until the cool of the air touched his face that he realized there were tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t recall ordering his tear ducts to activate, so they must have done so based on some unrecognized emotion. John would likely understand it, but he found himself unwilling to share this most personal moment with him. He felt as though he were finally letting so much go that had held him anchored down and if the breeze picked up he might blow away._

_“John,” Sherlock whispered to the moon as he looked up at the clear night sky, “Wait for me. When I’m well enough I’ll hold you again.”_

[CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/100499.html)


	23. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 23

For the life of him John couldn’t understand Sherlock’s need to smoke. He claimed it was a psychological addiction that he’d picked up from Mycroft who only smoked when he was very anxious, but John was having trouble buying that. Sherlock inhaling the smoke- which repulsively used the same program designed to perform fellatio- did nothing accept tar up his insides, make him smell bad, and looked stupid once you realized he was an android and had no lungs to metabolize the chemicals in the cigarettes into something pleasurable (and cancer causing). At the very least it kept him from craving gold, so John furnished him with pack after pack until the flat was intolerable from the smell and he demanded the android quit again.

Then came the tantrums. It had been some months since his ‘danger night’ when Irene Adler had faked her death, and Sherlock seemed at peace with having beheaded her. As much as that alarmed John, he tried to see it from Sherlock’s point of view, and offered him fake cigarettes as a substitute for the real ones. Sherlock threw them at him and told John to go find him a case before he made one by murdering someone.

John found him a case involving the murder of a small group of people on an underground platform. The police had some leads, but were having trouble figuring out if more than one person had been the murderer since there were several witnesses who all had varying statements and the blood spatter had been obscenely trampled. Sherlock chose to re-enact the murder using several dead pigs, which he harpooned over and again using PC volunteers to create a different number of ‘killers’ and placing the witnesses in their stated positions until he managed to re-create the crime scene blood spatter. Apparently a few people found his methods appalling and the police refused to give him a lift back to the flat after the cabs refused to stop for him. He’d ended up taking the tube back, which only put him in a more surly mood when he got there and found no more cases, no cigarettes, and John being as patient as humanly possible.

Thankfully poor Henry Knight showed up to take Sherlock’s ire away from John and they set out for Dartmoor, after he made a ridiculous point and got his hands on a pack of cigarettes he apparently didn’t need so long as he had a case. They drove there, checked into a cozy B&B, which John doubted they’d make much use of, interrogated a local or two, and then headed out to Baskerville- where Sherlock told John they had 20 minutes before someone noticed Mycroft wasn’t actually _in_ Baskerville using his pass.

“What is it? Are we in trouble?” A nervous corporal babbled as he hopped out of a jeep nearly before it had stopped running.

“Are we in trouble, sir,” Sherlock corrected while John admired his ‘superior officer’ voice.

“Yes sir, sorry sir.”

“You were expecting us?” Sherlock queried.

“Your ID showed up straightaway Mr. Holmes. Corporal Lyons, security. _Is_ there something wrong, sir?”

“Well I hope not, corporal, I hope not.”

“It’s just we don’t get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn’t happen.”

John decided to cut in then with some _real_ military authority and move things along if they really only had a 20 minute window.

“Ever heard of a spot check?” John asked redundantly, “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Sir,” Lyons stated, and they exchanged salutes.

“Major Barrymore won’t be pleased, sir,” Lyons added in a tone that spoke of doom, “He’ll want to see you both.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to sweet talk him, but John knew better how to handle this situation and spoke before he could.

“I’m afraid we won’t have time for that. We’ll need the full tour. Right away. Carry on,” And then when the man dallied, “That’s an _order_ , corporal.”

“Yes, Sir.”

John caught Sherlock’s smirk but ignored it as they headed for the door, swiped their cards, and headed into the facility.

“Nice touch,” Sherlock complimented, his voice low and just a bit heated.

“Haven’t pulled rank in ages,” John mentioned, glancing over curiously at his oddly flushed flatmate.

“Enjoyed it?” Sherlock queried.

“Oh, yeah,” John replied with soft enthusiasm.

“So did I,” Sherlock replied, and John was certain he heard lust in his voice that time.

_Did I pack the cock ring and cock cage? I think I did. Hell, I think I packed everything. Miracle I have clothes in my bag I’m so busy hoping Sherlock will stop pussyfooting around me and rip them off instead._

John couldn’t help but notice that despite the fact they were getting the ‘full tour’, they were also being given the run-around. Corporal Lyons made vague responses to every question while still managing to answer them. Even Dr. Stapleton was still just barely communicating with them, even after Sherlock mentioned the rabbit. John could sympathize. Mentioning the rabbit made him stall for a bit, too.

“Did we just break into a military base to investigate a _rabbit_?” John hissed at him.

John was taxed to the end of his ropes trying to think up excuses on their way out, especially when the alarms went off. He could hear himself going breathy. _Damn it, I’m a terrible actor. Always have been. Say something, Sherlock!_

To John’s shock the rescue came not from Sherlock, but from a _fan_ that was perfectly happy to pretend Sherlock was Mycroft Holmes. Of course, Sherlock’s turned up collar helped with that since it covered his android ID. Yet the man was _still_ not giving them answers and they left with- at least in John’s case- barely any more information than what they’d gone on with.

Then it was on to Henry Knight and then out onto the moor with the likely traumatized young man and those damn screaming marsh birds that made John want to climb a tree and scream back at them. John fell behind and when he caught up with them Sherlock wasn’t acting like himself. His behavior was intense, as though alarmed, but though Knight claimed they’d seen the hound Sherlock declared he had not.

When John finished calming Knight down he joined Sherlock back at the B&B, hopeful that his on and off lover would be… well, turned on… tonight. He found Sherlock sitting in front of the fire looking intense and nursing a cup of liquor. He knew Sherlock tended to consume foods and drinks to represent his moods, so he sat down to try to figure out what this one meant. He made a few jokes about selling mutant super dogs, mentioned the Morse code he’d been distracted by, noted Sherlock looking off more than ever, and then tried to distract him by asking for facts.

“Maybe we should just look for whoever’s got a big dog.”

“Henry’s right.”

“What?”

“I saw it, too.”

“What?”

“I saw it, too, John.”

Sherlock was unnerved, blinking back tears, his breathing fast, the picture of his reaction from Irene Adler’s beating; clearly on the verge of a panic attack.

“Whenever you rule out the possible, whatever remains, no matter how improbably, must be true,” Sherlock informed him anxiously.

“What does that mean?”

Sherlock laughed a bit, holding up his brandy and showing his shaking hand, “Look at me, I’m afraid, John. Afraid. I’ve never been afraid before. Oh, I’ve been panicked when facing my trauma from Marie, but not _afraid._ I assure you, it’s a completely different emotion, though I didn’t know that until today.”

“Sherlock-“

“I’ve always been able to keep myself distant, divorce myself from feelings. I have them, but they’re in addition to my programming, not a requirement of it. But you see? My body’s betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions,” Sherlock stated, his face twisted in disgust, “Grit on the lens, the fly on the ointment, the foolishness that keeps you with me when you know I’m no good for you.”

“Yeah, all right, Spock. Just take it easy.”

He tried to explain to Sherlock that what he was feeling wasn’t far off from his panic with Adler; that Sherlock had already proven himself capable of psychological trauma, so a bit of a fright wasn’t far off. Sherlock ended up shouting at him and then going off on one of his ‘look how clever I am’ spiels, which ended with him snarling at John to leave him alone.

“Okay. Okay,” John soothed, but couldn’t stop the irritation from creeping up, “Why would you listen to me? I’m just your friend.”

“I don’t have _friends,_ ” Sherlock hissed, with the same revulsion he showed to the word _feelings_ , and that settled it for John.

“No? Wonder why,” John replied, then stood and headed out the door to get some air.

He saw the lights flashing out in the distance again, but before he could go and investigate them a familiar face showed up.

“Greg?” John asked in surprise.

“Oh, good, I found you,” Lestrade sighed, his face lined with worry, “You got a moment?”

“Ah, is it something that can be discussed while walking into the middle of nowhere in search of blinking lights of unknown origin?”

“Yeah, I recon so,” Lestrade agreed amicably, “I thought you lot were here looking for a werewolf, not aliens.”

“Well, we like to branch out,” John scoffed, “So is that why you’re here? The hound?”

John had pulled out his torch and was headed across the field towards the flickering lights.

“Not exactly. Mycroft got in touch with me and told me a few things that had me spinning my tires to get here as fast as possible.”

“Like what?” John asked, wondering if they were going to be arrested for breaking into the base, and if so why follow him out into the middle of nowhere for it?

His answer had to wait, however, as they’d just stumbled across the cause for the lights. Lestrade had a good laugh at John’s expense, mimicking the people having at it in their cars, and they headed back.

“So what did Mycroft say to you?” John asked.

“I think… You know, I think I’d like to talk to you about it over a brew. No, in private. No, a brew. Is Sherlock in your room?”

“Probably not, when I left him he was having the mother of all sulks, in front of a giant fireplace, with a wingback chair, liquor, and everything. He might just put down roots and stay there for all I know. Add to his dramatic flair,” John replied, sulking a bit himself.

“Okay, so we could go up to your room and talk in private?” Lestrade asked.

“Ah, sure, if you want. Will there still be beer involved?”

“Sure. Yeah. I could use some beer.”

They bought a couple of bottles from the bar and headed to John’s room with them, promising not to make a mess as they went. John settled on the bed while Lestrade took the only chair in the room and looked uncomfortable again.

“Maybe if you get it out in a rush, like ripping off a plaster?” John suggested.

“Mycroft thinks Sherlock is abusing you and when he saw you’d booked a room together he sent me to make sure you were safe,” Lestrade replied in a rush.

“Wow. Huh,” John replied, studying his beer.

“That’s not a denial.”

“It’s not an admission, either.”

“You want to show me your bags?”

“Why?”

“He says you might have some things in there he’d use to hurt you with.”

“Fuck’s sake, Greg, he’s not beating me!”

“John, you know how many men and women have told me that and turned up dead within a week?” Lestrade asked anxiously.

“It’s not that kind of abuse,” John sighed.

“So he _is_ abusing you.”

“No. Yes. Shit,” John rubbed at his eyes in frustration, “Sherlock’s got some hang-ups. If I want to be… intimate with him… I have to go along with them.”

“What, like he ties you up?”

“No, though that’s not a bad idea,” John laughed bitterly, “He requires me not to… ejaculate.”

Lestrade stared at him blankly for a moment, then his brain caught up with the statement and he looked horrified, “What, ever?”

“Well, not in his presence, no. He graciously allows me the use of my left hand in the privacy of the loo once he’s through with me,” John snickered, taking another swig from his bottle.

“Okay. Not as bad as I thought. That’s it, then?” Lestrade asked, “And I can tell when you’re lying, by the way. That’s how I always beat you at poker.”

“Yeah, that’s it, except for a bit ago when I ruined it,” John sighed in frustration.

“What did you do, blow your load?” Lestrade snorted.

John stared down at his fingers, picking at the cuticle and trying not to let how guilty he still felt show through.

“Shit,” Lestrade sighed, “That’s _not_ it.”

“Yes it is, Greg, he doesn’t beat me or… well he degrades everyone, but he’s not _abusing_ me; just the whole orgasm denial thing. He thinks it’s disgusting.”

“So he doesn’t get off either?” Lestrade asked incredulously.

“No, he does.”

“But you getting off is disgusting?”

“Apparently, yeah.”

“Fucking hell, John, he’s got you feeling guilty about enjoying sex. _That’s_ _abuse_! It’s causing you damage, mental damage. That’s a big fucking problem!”

“He doesn’t mean to.”

“They _never_ mean to! They never mean to, and they’ll never do it again, and they’re sorry, and they’re gonna change! Until I find their significant others in a fucking ditch with their throats all fucked up and half their bones broken!”

“He’s not like that.”

“He’s not like anyone I know, John, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of killing!”

John must have let something show then because Lestrade went very, very still.

“Shit. He’s already killed and you know about it.”

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/100743.html)


	24. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 24

“No.”

“Yeah, it’s all over your face,” Lestrade said softly.

“You’re wrong. It’s not like that. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” John argued, but even he knew it sounded false.

“John, if he’s dangerous you need to come forward,” Lestrade said softly, “Look, I don’t like it any more than you do, but…”

“Get out,” John replied, his voice deadly cold.

“John, please.”

“Out. Now. Before I toss you out.”

“Take care of yourself,” Lestrade sighed, and stood to leave.

John moped on the bed, sipping his beer, and then checked his phone when it went off and rolled his eyes.

“You won’t let me date, but you want me to seduce a therapist into spilling the beans about a patient? Sherlock _Bloody_ Holmes,” John growled to himself as he threw on a change of clothes and headed back out the door.

His ‘date’ with Dr. Mortimer went crashing to a halt with the introduction of Dr. Franklin and his introduction of John as ‘Detective Sherlock Holmes’ live-in PA’. John sat sulking outside of an old church cemetery, which gave him a good view of where he’d last spotted a certain nosy DI, looking over his notes and trying to connect the dots the way Sherlock would when Himself came marching up.

Sherlock asked him about the Morse code, which John pushed off. Then he asked about Louise Mortimer- and tried to make a joke about her- but John snapped at him for it. Instead Sherlock tried to explain that he had doubted himself, but John couldn’t hear a lick of apology in it so he stormed off again.

“So you’ve got something to go on then? Good. Good luck with that,” John snipped.

“What I said before, John. I meant it,” Sherlock called after him, “I don’t have friends. I’d like to think we’re more than that.”

John paused and Sherlock caught up to him, “Except I’m not sure we are, Sherlock, and if we are we’ve got Lestrade to deal with.”

“What do you mean, Lestrade? What about him?”

“He’s here. In that pub over there last I saw him,” John nodded in the direction he’d last seen Lestrade headed, “He’s been talking to Mycroft and he’s got some wild ideas.”

John watched as Sherlock’s eyes flickered from side to side, clearly searching his memory for something and then his face lit up.

“John, you are amazing! You are fantastic!”

“Yes, alright, don’t overdo it, were you listening a moment ago?”

“You’ve never been the most luminous of people,” Sherlock explained as John led him round to the pub where Lestrade was seated, “but, as a conductor of light of light, you are unbeatable!”

“Cheers. What?”

“Some people aren’t geniuses, but they have the uncanny ability to stimulate it in others.”

“Hang on, you were saying sorry a moment ago. Don’t spoil it. Go on. What have I done that’s so bloody stimulating? And are you going to run off and leave me to wank alone again now you’re stimulated?”

Sherlock showed him the word HOUND and then added periods to make it an acronym. Just then Sherlock looked over and did a double take.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock shouted, heading into the pub and straight for Lestrade.

“Sherlock, I tried to tell… Hello, Greg,” John sighed.

“Oh, nice to see you, too,” Lestrade growled, then nodded in John’s direction, “John. I suppose there’s no point telling you I’m on holiday, John will have told you why I’m here.”

“He hasn’t,” Sherlock snapped.

“Yes I have,” John reminded.

“And even if he had, I wouldn’t need him to tell me that you’re here because Mycroft _Poppins_ sent you to babysit me; clearly to spy on me incognito, as well! Is that why you’re calling yourself ‘Greg’?!”

“That’s his _name_ ,” John gaped at Sherlock.

“Is it?” Sherlock asked in obvious surprise.

“Yes, not that you’ve ever bothered to find out. I’m not your handler and I don’t do whatever your so-called brother tells me to do,” Lestrade growled, “I’m here because I’m worried about John, apparently for good reason. I want a word with you, Sherlock. Now.”

“I’m in the middle of a case,” Sherlock argued.

“And you just might be the man we’re looking for,” John interrupted, pulling out the order slip he’d stolen earlier, “I found _this_. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock admitted.

“A nice scary inspector from Scotland Yard,” John insinuated, “who can put in a few calls might come in _very_ handy.”

“Yeah, right, sure,” Lestrade snorted, “I want a word with you _after_.”

“Not a problem Inspector,” Sherlock smirked.

While Lestrade interrogated the B&B owners Sherlock made another supplication to him and made him coffee. John tried to ignore the sugar.

“Look, this is sweet Sherlock, and I’m not just saying that, but it’s not going to cut it. We need to have an actual talk if you’re going to start calling this ‘more than friends’,” John whispered to Sherlock.

“Yes, of course, John, whatever you want,” Sherlock replied, watching John’s coffee cup.

“Did you even hear me?”

“Yes, we’re going to talk about being more than friends,” Sherlock repeated back, his mind clearly somewhere else.

“Yeah. Right,” John sighed, “After you talk about it with Lestrade.”

“Hm?” Sherlock gave John an alarmed look.

“He thinks you’re _abusing_ me, Sherlock.”

“But I’ve stopped,” Sherlock replied, “Didn’t you tell him that?”

“No, but there’s worse than that, he thinks you’re a murderer, too.”

“How did he come to that conclusion?”

“I might have inadvertently given him that idea,” John admitted.

“Good grief, can’t you manage a simple interrogation without me around?” Sherlock sighed.

“From the man who can’t handle a simple discussion without _me_ around?”

“Point,” Sherlock conceded.

The meat ended up being a partial dead end, but Sherlock was still convinced there was something on the moor besides the dog the couple at Cross Keys had been keeping. So much so that he put in a call to Mycroft and got them back into Baskerville, this time dragging Lestrade along for the ride. He sent John on ahead to search Stapleton’s lab stating he wanted Lestrade with him to interrogate Major Barrymore.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“Sherlock,” Lestrade started as they headed into a security booth, “I really need to talk to you about John.”

“Go on,” Sherlock stated, flipping a few switches.

“I’m trying to figure out how you think it’s okay for you to… climax… but not him.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why’s it happening?”

“It’s stopped happening, has he told you otherwise?”

“No, our conversation got cut a bit short when he threw me out on my ear for asking if you’ve ever killed anyone.”

“The answer to that question is ‘yes’, now go ahead and prove it was murder,” Sherlock smirked over his shoulder at Lestrade.

“What?” Lestrade asked in shock.

“If it gives you any comfort, Mycroft is aware; and despite his soft and squishy feelings for me he _would_ deactivate me if he thought me a threat to the populace at large. However, apparently if I’m only a threat to John he sends you. What do you want from me? An admission? I’m damaged goods, Lestrade, and I know I am.”

“Is that John in the lab?” Lestrade asked, squinting at the monitor. John was walking through a rather dark lab and entering a door at the far end.

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Lestrade continued, “John loves you. A blind man could see it. You need to either make a clean break of things or get enough therapy to treat him like a man instead of a machine- no offense.”

“None taken, John deserves better than me. He deserves someone who can make him happy, fulfill his lust for adventure, and satisfy him in bed. I can give him two of those, so I’ll do for now,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

“What’s stopping you letting him get off? That’s what confuses me. Is it some power thing? John thinks you find it disgusting, but that’s not it, is it? You’ve no problem with getting off yourself.”

Sherlock paused, his hands stilled on some light controls, and gave Lestrade a surprised look, “I’m not sure I’m comfortable telling you. Hm, isn’t that a strange sensation? I’ve got something I’m ashamed of. How interesting.”

“You’re barmy. Just out with it. I’m your mate, you can tell me shit. I’ll only arrest you if you deserve it.”

Sherlock smiled a bit, and then flipped a few switches, “That’s the second time someone’s called me their friend in 24 hours. Is this what it feels like to be popular?”

“What’s all that flashing?” Lestrade asked as the screen with John walking about in the lab started to flicker white and black with brief glimpses of a disoriented John in between.

“Just giving John a bit of light to see by.”

“Why’s it so bright? He looks blinded.”

“I’ll turn it off in a minute.”

“Is this an experiment, Sherlock? Tell me you’re not running some daft experiment on you’re boyfriend!”

“I’m afraid I won’t satisfy him.”

“Well not like this, you won’t!”

“I mean in bed. I’m afraid John won’t be satisfied and he’ll leave me.”

“You’ve gone round the bend,” Lestrade barked, “Is that the alarms going off in the room he’s in?”

“Hm, that’s annoying. I’ll see if I can shut them off,” Sherlock replied.

“Sherlock, you’re a pleasure bot. How could you _not_ satisfy him? And how is making sure he _isn’t_ satisfied fixing that?”

“My pleasure android software was deleted. I deleted it, I suppose, though I have no memory of doing so. Perhaps Mycroft did. The point is, I don’t even know how to kiss anymore. John had to show me. He had to show me everything, although I did have enough sense to Google ‘anal sex’, which is a good thing otherwise I might have harmed him. Ah, there. Alarms off.”

“Yeah, but now the lights are, too. Maybe you should get someone to help you with those controls.”

“No, I think I’ve got it now.”

“So, the orgasm denial thing?” Lestrade prompted.

“He can’t be disappointed by what he’s not getting.”

“Only _you_ would think that was a solution,” Lestrade snorted.

“I will need you to be absolutely quiet soon,” Sherlock stated, “If you can’t comply then leave.”

Lestrade paused and thought through Sherlock’s statements, “You _are_ running an experiment on him! Bloody hell, Sherlock! Do you not _know_ what limits are?! Let him out!”

“No. Leave.”

Sherlock stood to push Lestrade out the door, but he fought him off while Sherlock’s phone rang in the distance.

“He’s not a bloody test subject! He’s your boyfriend! Don’t you even care about him?!”

“Of _course_ I care about…”

“Then _act like it!_ ” Lestrade shouted, and punched him soundly.

Sherlock spun back a bit, his arms coming up to protect himself from another punch.

“I need to call John back and…” Sherlock argued, but Lestrade cut him off.

“Apologize and get him out of there!” Lestrade finished in a shout, pointing at the visual screen.

Sherlock glanced down at it and then did a double take.

“He’s not panicking,” Sherlock stated in surprise.

“You’re lucky he’s not or I’d be hitting you again!” Lestrade shouted.

“It didn’t work. Why didn’t it work? Why isn’t he hallucinating?”

“You gave him something to make him hallucinate?” Lestrade asked incredulously. This was low, even for Sherlock!

“Shut up.”

“Bloody hell! That’s it. That’s bloody it. I’m ending this, Sherlock.”

“Shut up! I’m trying to think!” Sherlock shouted angrily.

“No! You shut up!” Lestrade shouted back, “I’m calling Mycroft. He’s going to haul you in, remove your memory of John Watson, find him a new flat, and I’m going to _personally_ make sure you never treat _anyone_ like this again!”

Sherlock froze and turned slowly away from the surveillance camera screen to give Lestrade a calculating look.

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll make sure you don’t do this to anyone _ever_ again. You can use your insecurities and past abuse as a crutch all you want, Sherlock, but it’s no excuse for abusing people! None!”

“No. No, I won’t go in, and you can’t make me,” Sherlock argued blandly, adding a snort onto the end for good measure.

“I can and will. Mycroft told me your shutdown code,” Lestrade replied, his voice just a tad apologetic, as Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes, “It’s over, Sherlock. I’ll give you a chance to say goodbye to him and explain it if you want, but this is it. I’ll not let you hurt him. John Watson’s a good man. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“No. No, please,” Sherlock pleaded, his eyes wide in terror as he backed away from Lestrade.

“Don’t go on like that,” Lestrade sighed, “I know you’re just putting me on.”

Instead of admitting he was shamming, Sherlock literally dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in supplication, “Lestrade- Greg- I’m begging you! Don’t take him from me! At least don’t take my memories of him!”

“Pull the other one!” Lestrade snorted, “Come off it, Sherlock, I know you better than this. John’s just a passing fancy. You breaking his heart I knew would happen eventually, not that I was okay with that, but this? I can’t let you muck about with his head.”

“I’ll never do it again! I’ll apologize! I’ve learnt my lesson, please!” Sherlock pleaded, and Lestrade was shocked to see tears starting up, “I’ve tried to do better, but I don’t know what I’m doing! Just tell me what to do! I don’t know how these things _work!_ ”

Sherlock’s phone went off again and Lestrade walked over, picked it up, and answered it just to stall for time.

“Sherlock, something’s gone wrong with the locks. I’m shut in down here. Did something happen?”

“It’s Lestrade, and yeah something’s gone wrong. You okay?”

“Fine, just sitting about in the dark like an owl. They have owls here, by the way. I can hear them.”

“Oh, I like owls.”

“Me, too. Anything that eats rodents before they end up dissected on my kitchen table is all right with me. Ah… is Sherlock okay?”

“He’s…” Lestrade glanced down at the detective, still on his knees and looking desperate, “He’s indisposed at the moment.”

“Indisposed how? Battery run out or something worse?” John asked with a note of worry.

“I think worse, but I’m not sure. I’ll send someone down to let you out.”

“Can I talk to him?” John asked in concern.

Lestrade hesitated and then handed Sherlock the phone.

“John, come and find me,” Sherlock bit out, standing and putting as much distance between Lestrade and himself as he could, his hand held out to keep the Detective Inspector at bay though he wasn’t attempting to take the phone back, “They’re going to make me forget you, but you _must_ come and find me again. I need you. I’ll still need you even if I forget!”

Lestrade couldn’t hear what John was saying, but his tone was frantic.

“I need you, please remember that,” Sherlock pleaded, his voice wracked with sobs while he kept his eyes fixed on Lestrade, “Please remember that no matter how different I seem, and don’t let me hurt you next time.”

John was shouting something, but then the phone went silent though Sherlock hadn’t hit disconnect. Sherlock glanced away from Lestrade at the phone and then up at him again.

“What is this, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, “What are you trying to pull? You know Mycroft will keep him away from you.”

“The experiment didn’t work. John hasn’t been drugged. I was wrong about the sugar,” Sherlock continued, his tone sounding more like he did when rattling off case information.

“Sugar?” Lestrade asked in confusion.

“The sugar in our coffee. I had some and so did Henry Knight and then we both saw the hound. It’s inconceivable that something could affect an android and a human, but it clearly did, so I had to test it again. The sugar was the only thing that John didn’t consume that both Henry and I did. He wasn’t drugged. I made a mistake, but it didn’t hurt him, so can’t we just forget it and move on? I won’t make him wear the ring again and I never liked the cage. The cage was his idea.”

“Cage?”

“A _cock_ cage. He couldn’t even get aroused- not properly. I hated it,” Sherlock said in disgust, and then went on to plead once more, “I _want_ him, Lestrade, and I need him. I don’t want a… John shaped _pillow_ to rut against, I want a _man_. I want John. Just… give me time. I’ll make it right. I won’t hurt him again. I’ve learnt my lesson. I _have_.”

John burst through the door with a machine gun in his hand and a guard behind him sporting a bloody nose and a blackening eye. He moved faster than Lestrade thought possible across to Sherlock where he planted his back to the android and raised the gun to point at the guard.

“The fuck is going on here,” John demanded.

“Just calm down Mr. Watson,” The guard pleaded, “put the gun down before we have to gas you.”

“Sherlock, do you know me?” John asked.

“Yes. For now,” Sherlock replied anxiously from the floor.

“Then you’ll do no good gassing us because he’s an android,” John countered, “He’ll just pick Lestrade and I up and carry me out. He’s done before, he’ll do again so I suggest you tell me what the _hell_ is going on. Now. Before I let this gun start asking the questions- and it’s _Captain_ Watson, so don’t think I don’t know how to use it.”

“The Baskerville people aren’t the ones threatening Sherlock, I am,” Lestrade informed him in his best ‘I’m a fucking cop so what are you going to do about it?’ voice.

To Lestrade’s shock the gun pivoted to point at him and there wasn’t an ounce of hesitance in John’s eyes.

“Sherlock? That true?” John asked.

“Yes. He knows my deactivation code. He says it I’m at his mercy.”

“Silence him?” John asked.

Lestrade’s mouth opened in shock and the safety clicked off.

“Not a word!” John barked, “I’m not afraid of death or prison, Lestrade. Don’t test me.”

Lestrade shut his mouth tightly, his eyes going to Sherlock’s and it was his turn to silently plead with the android. Sherlock smirked, moving to stand and straightening his clothes with an arrogant air. He dried his eyes and stepped closer to John.

“You’d do it, wouldn’t you, John? Kill someone you’ve been out to drinks with at my word?” Sherlock asked, his voice deep and sultry.

“Yes,” John replied, eyes locked on Lestrade, clear of any kind of guilt or worry.

“Gods, look at you,” Sherlock breathed, “Steal and spikes in a fuzzy jumper. It’s like hiding a mace in a kitten.”

“We’ll discuss your crap taste in analogy’s later, yeah? Kill, disable, or stand down?”

Sherlock stood a moment, looking over John Watson’s body as though he were naked and spread out for him rather than fully clothed and poised to kill another human being. He moved closer and ran his fingertips down the back of John’s head through his hair, down his neck, down his clothed spine, turned his hand, and obscenely cupped John’s buttocks with a firm grip. John’s eyes and stance never wavered, but he did shift subtly to relieve the pressure on his growing erection. Lestrade swallowed and waited for his death.

Sherlock leaned over John and wrapped his arms gently around his shoulder and waist; he pressed several slow, lingering kisses along the side of his face from front to back as he moved towards his ear.

“ _Stand. Down.”_

At Sherlock’s whispered words the safety clicked on and John straightened into military precise stance, the gun held securely in two hands. Sherlock flowed with his body like a silk robe and stood behind him with an arm draped lazily around his neck from behind. There was no doubt in Lestrade’s eyes- based on the warning in John’s and what he’d just seen- that the man could drop back into battle-ready stance, click off the safety, and shoot him before he got Sherlock’s full code out.

“I think you should go and see Mycroft now, Lestrade. Don’t you?” Sherlock inquired.

Lestrade nodded, swallowing convulsively.

“You won’t threaten to take John from me again, will you?” Sherlock inquired.

Lestrade shook his head, equally silent.

“John, hand your gun to the nice corporal there and get out. You too, Lestrade.”

“What, why?” Lestrade asked, and then clipped his mouth shut and backed away with arms raised when the gun flashed up before he could blink.

“Because I need to go to my Mind Palace,” Sherlock snarked, “Really, John, stand down and disarm. No one is going to harm us today, Captain. I’ll text Mycroft and make _sure_ of that.”

John Watson straightened up; holding the gun one handed, fixed his shirt, adjusted his tented trousers, walked calmly across the room, handed his weapon off to the nervous corporal, and walked out without another word. Lestrade blinked at Sherlock in confusion and then walked out the door behind him.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/100891.html)


	25. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 25

A/N Another bug warning for this chapter. Not as bad as the last one, but it mentions their creepy parts in Sherlockian detail.  
  
John had little recollection of what got him up to Sherlock. He recalled busting the electronic lock in the dark room open with something that felt like a wooden chair. The doors had opened and another alarm had sounded. He’d fled up the stairs, punched out an uncounted amount of people, tackled the corporal for his gun, punched him for good measure, and made it to Sherlock after a blur of passages and lots of threatening gun waving. All to find out the real threat was his own friend.

“Okay, you’re going to tell me that code, then you’re going to tell me what made you think you could use it on Sherlock, then you’re going to walk away and be glad you’re leaving in one piece,” John stated once the door had shut behind them.

“Okay, but I just have one question,” Lestrade stated, looking honestly confused.

“That would be?”

“The fuck is a _Mind_ Palace?”

“It’s what Sherlock calls his memory banks, the arrogant sod, now the code?” John snapped irritably.

“I can’t tell you that, John.”

Lestrade was against a wall with his throat being squeezed before he knew what was happening. He gasped and choked, but John’s grip wasn’t allowing any oxygen through.

“Put him down!” The corporal shouted.

“This doesn’t concern you,” John replied.

“He’s here under that chap Mycroft Holmes’ permission as well, that means he’s my responsibility and I will shoot your knees out to stop you killing him,” The corporal replied.

John paused a moment and then relented.

Lestrade sagged to the floor, gasping for air.

“The code,” John repeated, “So I can slit the throat of the next person who even _begins_ to utter it.”

“Only Mycroft and I know it,” Lestrade croaked.

“Good. Double Homicide has a nice ring to it.”

“Bloody hell, John, I was trying to protect you!” Lestrade panted, “You think those lights were flashing by accident? He was running an experiment on you. He thought he’d drugged you with something from Knight’s house and was trying to get you to hallucinate like he did out on the moor!”

John blinked a moment, and then narrowed his eyes, “That _bastard!_ ”

“Yeah, well, if it helps any I _think_ he was sorry. Really, sorry, I mean. He was crying, and for a change I don’t think he was faking it.”

“Hm, I’ll be the judge of that,” John decided.

Sherlock came flying out and swept towards Major Barrymore’s office.

“Sir, I don’t think you can go in there,” The corporal stammered, chasing after him.

“Shut up or I’ll have my blogger disarm you again,” Sherlock snapped.

“Who?” The corporal asked.

“That’d be me,” John replied.

“You’re a blogger?” The man asked, confused.

“I’m _his_ blogger,” John replied, “Well, unless of course I’m _hallucinating_ all this.”

Sherlock was spinning about the room muttering about Winston Churchill and other odd things he noticed.

“Ignore Lestrade. He’s an idiot,” Sherlock stated after a moment.

“Sherlock, did you try to drug me today?” John asked, and he must have managed to convey the proper level of ‘I’m going to fucking kill you’, because Sherlock paused and gave him a sheepish look.

“I might have miscalculated how much you’d be willing to assist me during a case,” Sherlock admitted.

“Yeah, right, and your complete lack of respect for me has nothing to do with it,” John replied easily.

“I do respect you, John.”

“Oh, really? Cause the evidence to the contrary is just piling up, Sherlock, and I know how you _love_ evidence.”

“John, this isn’t the time. I’m close to something and it’s _vital_. Lives may be at stake if I don’t find out what H.O.U.N.D. is.”

“Yeah, my life,” John replied, “Because it’s one thing to mess with my cock, Sherlock, but you can’t muck around in my _head_.”

“I’ll just be going now,” the corporal muttered, trying to edge away.

“Shut up and sit down!” Sherlock and John both barked out and the man dropped to the floor to sit Indian style right where he was, gun awkward in his lap.

“Mother always warned me not to get in between couples fighting,” The corporal sighed, “More dangerous than getting shot at in a war.”

“You’re completely unharmed,” Sherlock snapped at John, “Did I mention this was vital? Honestly, John, whatever it was, was used on both Henry Knight and myself and we’re both fine. Obviously you would be as well, but it wasn’t the sugar so you’re doubly unharmed- if that were possible.”

“You don’t get it, do you Sherlock?” John asked quietly, “Do you know why you can’t mess with my head? Or even attempt to?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me,” Sherlock sneered.

“Because I’m already damaged and you can’t keep saving me. Eventually it won’t work.”

Sherlock gave him a confused look and John elaborated, “When I met you, Sherlock Holmes, I wasn’t just wandering around London for jollies. I was saying goodbye. Mike Stamford introducing us was just me being polite. I had no intention of taking a flat with you or anyone else. I was going to go home and eat my gun that night.”

Lestrade straightened in alarm, but wisely kept silent. Sherlock gave John a wide-eyed stare.

“No,” Sherlock argued quietly, “No, that’s not right. It doesn’t fit you. You’d not kill yourself.”

“War does things to people, Sherlock,” John explained softly, “In my case it took everything I defined myself with and stripped it away to replace it with the title ‘army doctor’. Then it took that away, too. I had nothing. Showing up at 221B to look at the flat was just curiosity. If you hadn’t made me feel useful again I’d have wandered off eventually and done myself in.”

Sherlock dropped the book he’d been paging through for some odd reason and crossed the room; he took a firm grip on John’s biceps and stared intently into his eyes for several seconds.

“You would,” Sherlock whispered, “You’d do it. The intent is there.”

“You said you were afraid of breaking me, Sherlock. I’m already cracked. Better be careful, yeah?”

Sherlock tugged John in and held him tightly a moment, his head on the top of John’s head.

“A promise, John? Promise me you won’t? Not without giving me a chance to make it right again, first?”

“There are only so many chances I can give you, Sherlock.”

“One more?”

“Yeah, sure. One more.”

John’s mobile went off, shattering the moment, and Sherlock released him as though burnt. John gave him an annoyed look while he went back to ransacking Major Barrymore’s office and answered it.

It was Louis Mortimer, Henry Knight’s therapist, and she was crying.

XXXXXXXXXX

“No! Henry! No! No!” Sherlock shouted. John was hot on his heels after the man in Dewer’s Hollow who had just pulled his gun from his own mouth.

“Easy, Henry, easy, just relax,” John soothed.

“I know what I am! I know what I tried to do!” Knight shouted hysterically.

“Just put the gun down. It’s okay,” John reasoned.

“No, no, I know what I am!” Knight screamed.

“Yes, I’m sure you do, Henry,” Sherlock soothed, “It’s all been explained to you, hasn’t it? Explained very carefully.”

“What?” The man asked in confusion.

“Someone needed to keep you quiet, because you had started to remember. Remember now, Henry, you’ve got to remember. What happened here when you were a little boy? There wasn’t just a hound here, was there Henry? Probably there were several dogs, large _and_ small, but they weren’t what frightened you, no. There was a truly terrifying thing here. There was a person, wearing something that had the acronym H.O.U.N.D., the words Liberty In, and a device of some kind. _Remember._ ”

Knight’s eyes regained focus and he stared at them in surprise. Lestrade had caught up by then and was holding Sherlock’s cell phone high in the air with one hand and a gun in the other.

“It start?” Lestrade asked.

“Not yet, evidently, you’ll know when it does,” Sherlock replied, “There are pressure pads in the ground, but he hit one already and it hasn’t gone off. Quite possibly Dr. Franklin is wearing the device. He means to see it through tonight.”

Knight was staring off into the distance, remembering and looking miserable, “His shirt. It had a ferocious dog on it and the word H.O.U.N.D., then Liberty, In. written on the bottom. I saw it up close as he walked below the tree I was hiding in. To keep away from the dogs. The dogs. They were all mad. All of them. Even Mrs. Wilkinson’s little toy poodle, Fluffykins.”

“You couldn’t cope,” Sherlock soothed, “you were just a child. So you rationalized it into something very different. Then you started to remember, so you had to be stopped, driven out of your mind so that no one would believe a word you said.”

“It’s okay,” John soothed, reaching out for the gun and edging closer now he was calm, “It’s okay mate.”

“But we saw it,” Knight whimpered, “The hound last night. We did.”

“Yes, there was a dog, Henry. Probably more than one just like all those years ago. The project HOUND was meant to train dogs to attack or perform tasks on command. It uses a series of repetitive high-pitched sounds all above the frequency humans can hear in order to give them trained commands, but the project was a failure. It was meant to be used for crowd control for instances of mob violence, so dogs could be sent in rather than risk people, but while the dogs were controllable with the sound it was _damaging_ to people. It caused the blood to pool in the brain, putting pressure on whatever section of the brain it happened to gather in. People who were exposed to the sound had seizures, developed symptoms of concussions, temporarily lost motor function, bled from the ears, developed hematomas across their faces, suffered strokes, hallucinated, and sometimes- just sometimes- went on murdering sprees.”

“Am I going to die? Become a vegetable?” Knight asked, “Will I get better? I don’t want to kill anyone!”

“You won’t. You won’t,” John reassured, “We’re going to take you to a hospital. To a neurosurgeon I know. He’s going to take a look at you, find where the pressure has gathered and not drained after repeat exposure, and he’ll relieve it. You’ll be fine.”

“John’s right,” Sherlock replied, “but we really have to get out of this area before someone decides to set it off again.”

Just that moment Sherlock gasped and staggered backwards and pain shot through John’s skull like a bullet.

“Now Lestrade! Now!” Sherlock shouted.

Lestrade hit a button on the phone and a deep resonant sound echoed out of the phone. The pressure in John’s skull lessened and Sherlock straightened, grabbed John’s arm, and turned to flee the area. John held back, however, trying to get to a panicking Henry Knight who was pointing up at the ridge where a dog was opening and closing it’s mouth in a drowned-out bark. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s phone speaker blew out and the area fell into silence… apparent silence, but judging by the dogs gathering, the pain in John’s head, and the hysteria of the people surrounding him _including_ Sherlock…

John pulled out his gun and shot the first dog that he saw. Beside him Lestrade shot another, but then was tackled by Knight who was screaming that he would kill ‘the hound’ and had wrapped his fingers around Lestrade’s neck. John dragged Knight off of Lestrade and chinned him, but was soon tackled by Sherlock who pinned him to the ground.

“You think I don’t know, don’t you?!” Sherlock shouted at him, “You think I’m just going to lie back and take it?! Let you _own_ me like you simpering primates think you have the right to do to _anything_ and _everything_ around you?! I won’t let you get John! He’s mine! MINE!”

“No! Sherlock! Please! Ahhhh! My head! My…” John’s vision swam and he tasted copper.

Then another gunshot rent the air and they all stilled. Sherlock gave John a look of horror and released his wrists, tugging his scarf off and using it to blot the blood from John’s face. It seemed to be coming from his nose.

“Look at me, John. Look at me. How many fingers am I holding up?” Sherlock asked in a panic, holding up three… maybe…

“How many am I?” John asked, holding up two in a rude gesture.

“I think he’s okay,” Sherlock stammered, dragging himself upright and holding out a hand to pull John up as well, “Lestrade?”

“Fine, yeah,” Lestrade panted, rubbing at his temple, “I’ve had worse hangovers. Luckily that fall let me see where the speaker was. I shot it. Cleverly hidden unless you’re on the ground being tackled by a madman.”

“Henry?” Sherlock asked, looking around.

For several minutes they couldn’t find him, but then they found the first traces of viscera and followed the trail. Henry Knight stood over the mangled body of Bob Franklin with a large rock in one hand. Around him were several very confused and injured dogs. It wasn’t immediately apparent if he had been trying to beat the dogs off or aiding them in tearing the man to pieces, but there was certainly no saving him even though John checked for a pulse.

“What happened?” John asked, “I thought the device was supposed to keep him safe and make them attack anything but him?”

“Look at it,” Sherlock pointed to a box around his waist with glowing red buttons, “Rusty in places from the elements when he’s left it out here to attack Henry without him being in proximity. It must have become faulty. If those sequences aren’t followed _exactly_ then this is the result: instead of telling the dogs to attack everyone but him, he sent them after himself as well. Good riddance.”

“My head hurts,” Knight stated, dropping the rock with a ‘thunk’.

“Let’s get you to a hospital. Let’s get _all_ of us to a hospital,” John stated, then gave Sherlock a once over, “And you to a mechanic.”

“Oh, very funny,” Sherlock snipped.

They all started back for Grimpet, but John hung back a bit. He was trying to adjust his very painful erection into a more suitable position, even going so far as to intentionally catch his leg on a briar.

“You okay John?” Lestrade called back.

“Fine! Just a briar! Go on ahead!” John turned slightly and gave himself a quick adjustment, breathing in relief.

“That looks painful,” Sherlock spoke directly beside him.

John jumped and spun only to find himself crushed to the android’s chest.

“You always get aroused after a case. It must be agony seeing me show off my brilliance. Do you touch yourself thinking of what I say, or just imagining my voice?”

“Arrogant git, it’s danger I get off on and you know that.”

“Yes, I’m thinking of making that my middle name.”

“Arrogant or Git?”

Sherlock smirked, “Danger, John, because I am _very_ dangerous.”

Sherlock pushed John backwards against a tree and pinned him there, his artificial eyes glowing faintly blue-green in the darkness, “How badly do you need to go to a hospital?”

“Not as badly as I need to come,” John panted, “Which means you’d better back off and let me go to hospital instead. I haven’t a ring or a cage or anything with me and shear willpower _isn’t_ going to cut it this time.”

“Good,” Sherlock growled, and covered his mouth in a heated kiss. John’s hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair as he palmed John’s crotch while he moaned hungrily into his mouth.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Cut it out, you two!” Lestrade shouted, his torch flickering back towards them.

Sherlock broke the kiss, “Go ahead, we’ll catch up!”

“Are you daft? This whole area’s about to become a crime scene!”

Sherlock grinned at John who whimpered and bucked his hips at that idea.

“I think that works for John!” Sherlock shouted.

“Wanker!” John hissed, and then moaned and let his head fall back as Sherlock dropped to his knees and started undoing his pants.

“Oh, hell, no!” Lestrade snarled, his voice getting closer.

John raised his gun again and pointed it right at him, “You stop him going down on me you’re a dead man.”

“You really enjoy pointing guns at me, don’t you?” Lestrade argued, “You forgetting he’s not gonna _let_ you come?”

“Yeah, well,” John’s voice cracked, “I’m contemplating pointing the gun at _him_ next.”

“Piss off, Lestrade,” Sherlock snapped, “Or watch silently so I can enjoy this thoroughly. After all, I’ve never tasted John’s semen. This should prove interesting.”

So saying Sherlock swallowed John down with a lurid slurp and the agonizingly aroused doctor groaned out loud. He still managed to keep the gun pointed at Lestrade, who gave them a wave of disgust and walked off with a confused Henry Knight in tow.

“Oh, gods, Sherlock,” John panted as the man bobbed his head gently, “Mph.”

John was in hell. Sherlock’s lips were a barely-there pressure, his tongue a gentle caress of warm, wet, silk, the suction was enough to keep him panting but not to throw him over the edge. Sherlock had, apparently, found a new way to torture him and John was ready to weep. Then he decided he’d had enough. Enough teasing. Enough games. Enough restrictions on his body while with a creature meant to bring pleasure that _he_ had satisfied over and again without complaint.

John tackled Sherlock pinning him to the ground and tearing at his clothing.

“John! Yes!” Sherlock gasped as John ripped off his shoes, tossed his trousers away, and yanked his thighs open.

“No underwear, Sherlock? You filthy bot, you,” John growled, then pounced on him and kissed him hungrily.

He was surprised when Sherlock didn’t order him silent. Instead, Sherlock melted in his arms, moaning and wriggling beneath him for friction while John ground himself against the gorgeous man. John wanted more than that, though. He wanted proper sex and he’d _bloody earned it_. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and yanked it downward.

“Prepare me. Now. I want your cock in my arse before you can say Baskerville Secret Army Base.”

“Why wait when you can have me without wasting time on _preparation_?”

“What?” John asked, all the blood quite gone from his brain and re-allocated to his dick.

Sherlock put both hands on John’s shoulders and pushed him into a kneeling position, following him up so he could stare hungrily into his eyes. What happened to following sex-related orders? Not that John was complaining if the predatory look on Sherlock’s face meant what he thought it did.

“Fuck me, John,” Sherlock growled, then turned about and presented that luscious backside, dropping his shoulders to the ground and spreading his cheeks.

John fumbled for his torch and faced it towards that gorgeous arse. He gasped at the sight of Sherlock’s wet hole gaping for him in between Sherlock’s clasped hands. He put the torch in his teeth, one hand on the consulting detectives lower back, and lined himself up with the other. John sank in slowly, savoring the feel of popping through the artificial muscle- likely put there for that very effect- and groaning at the tight heat that enveloped him. He stilled, willing himself to savor this unparalleled moment, and then pulled out to snap his hips back in.

“OH _GODS_!” Sherlock shouted.

John spat the torch out, “Did I hu-?”

“AGAIN!”

John took up a brutal pace; pounding into Sherlock relentlessly while the android frantically fisted his own cock. Neither of them would last long if Sherlock’s clenching muscles were anything to go by. John wasn’t sure if he had something similar to a prostate- had he mentioned that once?- but he was aiming for a spot that made the android buck and keen like a slut gagging for a good buggering. He’d never seen Sherlock this undone before, but he was wild beneath John; his pace on his member out of sync with the hips that jerked back to meet each of John’s violent thrusts.

“John! John!!” He cried out, moaning his name as though he needed him to survive. Perhaps he did.

“Fuck, Sherlock, I think you’re trying to _devour_ me,” John gasped, not entirely referring to the sucking pull of that tight orifice.

“Ohhh, more! More!”

“M’ not gonna last!” John gasped.

“Come in me. Do it and then I’m going to _fuck you,_ John Watson. I’m going to bend you over and bugger you until you _scream!_ ” Sherlock shouted at him.

If Sherlock’s deep voice didn’t throw him over the edge, the feel of his artificial muscles clenching around John’s cock as he came onto the ground between his legs certainly did. John opened his mouth in a silent scream, unable to breathe for the pleasure coiling in his abdomen and pulsing out of his cock, setting every nerve on fire as it coated his lover’s insides. He stilled his hips as the sensations overwhelmed, gasped in a breath, thrust three more times, stilled again and moaned at the lewd sound of Sherlock still jerking himself off, gave a few more thrusts just to _milk it_ , and then slid out and collapsed backwards onto the trail.

Sherlock was on him like an animal, biting and licking his neck and shoulders- even through his clothes- as he gripped John’s thighs and arranged them to his liking, kneeling on his trousers to pin him down. John moaned at the helpless feeling and threw his arms up above his head in surrender.

“I’m going to leave marks all over you, Captain Watson, would you like that?”

“Yes!” John gasped.

Sherlock’s wet finger invaded his body, spraying his clenching opening with heated lube. John moaned and bucked up, impaling himself intentionally. Sherlock quickly added a second, rubbing a soothing hand on his hip when John hissed at the burn and then gasped as Sherlock spread his fingers to stretch him faster.

“Come on, come on, come _on_ ,” Sherlock panted, thrusting his fingers a few times and then pulling them out and lining himself up.

Sherlock slid into him forever, moaning continuously as his long cock slowly glided home. When seated fully he leaned across John’s body and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. John savored the tender moment of feeling full and cherished.

Then Sherlock bit his shoulder. John yelped and bucked, causing Sherlock to moan. The eager robot propped himself up on his arms and took up a punishing pace. John cried out, rolling his hips to avoid pressure on his prostate, but Sherlock chased it relentlessly.

“Ease off!” John gasped, “I can’t go again!”

“The hell you can’t,” Sherlock growled, but stopped angling towards his sensitive spots anyway.

John moaned then, enjoying the slick, warmth as Sherlock thrust into him over and again. The bugs chirped around him, the birds cried out in the distance, the plants tickled his neck, and a feeling of euphoria descended. This was where he belonged. Not just having hot, frantic sex with Sherlock, but _with him_ completely. Beneath him, above him, in him, around him, beside him, in front of him, behind him, just _with him_ , everything revolved around Sherlock Holmes; it was likely incredibly unhealthy, but it was also perfect in every way.

John gasped out his lover’s name as Sherlock’s cock began to swell inside of him. Sherlock gripped John’s hip and lifted him so he could take him with short shallow thrusts and the perfect angle. He was teasing John’s prostate again, but now it was pleasure that trickled up his spine and John whimpered.

“John! I’m coming!” Sherlock gasped, and pressed on through the hot flood that filled John’s body.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John whispered, reaching a hand down to lay it over the one grasping his hip.

Sherlock hit his third almost immediately after and cried out as though in pain, burying himself deep and stilling completely as the hot, sticky fluid spilled out around his cock and trickled down John’s arsecrack.

“Oh, gods, I love that!” John gasped as Sherlock gave a few more thrusts and squeezed more juices from John’s aching entrance.

“Love what?” Sherlock groaned, sliding out and leaning back on his heals.

“This,” John replied, reaching down to trace a finger around his abused hole and collecting the fluids there, “I love the feel of you dripping out of me. Especially when it squeezes out _while_ you’re inside me.”

“That’s just a bit filthy,” Sherlock replied, his breathing unfairly back to normal.

“No, the filthy part is me wanting to taste it,” John admitted with an embarrassed laugh.

“Assuming you’ve washed down there recently, go right ahead,” Sherlock snorted.

John hesitated, calculating his last shower and… other things… and then brought his fingers to his lips.

“Good?” Sherlock asked.

“Tastes like us both,” John reported in surprise, “Not foul at all. The perfect bouquet.”

John stilled and gasped as Sherlock’s silhouette disappeared, long fingers spread his cheeks, and a hot, moist touch circled his twitching rosebud.

“Mmm, it is lovely,” Sherlock growled against his backside.

John’s cock gave an interested twitch, but he had no hope of anything for at least an hour.

“Gods, your voice is criminal. Seriously, Moriarty’s jealous for a reason. If it were corporeal I’d fuck your voice.”

“Fuck my voice?” Sherlock chuckled, giving John a swipe around his leaking hole, up his taint, and then gently sucking on each bollocks.

“Oh fuck! Yes! Oh, eat me out!” John begged, and then dropped his voice deeper to make it an order, “Clean me up.”

Sherlock moaned throatily, clearly enjoying the idea, which chased John’s concern away that he’d done something wrong by ordering him. Instead he latched his lips onto John’s hole and suckled and licked it until John was a keening mess, rolling his hips and grinding his arse against Sherlock’s face. John was growing impossibly hard again and reached down to touch himself just to enjoy the freedom, but Sherlock caught the motion and slid his long middle finger in to stroke his prostate. John gasped and felt himself _truly_ responding.

“Hard again, John?” Sherlock growled, “Didn’t I tell you once wasn’t enough? You’ll _never_ get enough of me. I’m going to make sure of it even if I have to download pirated software to excite you.”

“Unless you’re referring to some kinky role-play with you as a pirate, I don’t think you’re going to need to,” John panted, and then stilled completely, “ _Were_ you talking about dressing up like a pirate and rogering me?”

Sherlock paused and John didn’t have to see him to know he’d raised an eyebrow, “Well, I am _now_.”

“Oh, gods,” John gasped, renewing his grip on his cock and stroking it faster.

“Allow me,” Sherlock growled, and climbed him eagerly to sink down on him once more.

“Fuck!” John shouted.

“Sir, yes, sir!” Sherlock responded, and John thought he saw a salute in the darkness, but his torch was pointing at the wrong angle.

Sherlock took to riding him wildly and John grasped his hips to keep the eager android from sliding off completely. He was soon thrusting up, his feet firmly planted in the ground below them, his pants still tangled around his ankles.

“Your arse,” John growled, “Is positively sinful.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock moaned, grasping himself and beginning to toss off with his head thrown back. His gorgeous alabaster skin was catching the moonlight.

“You’re a god,” John moaned, “I’m going to worship you forever.”

“I’ll. Uhn! Take you up on that!”

Sherlock grunted and came across John’s chest, which was so utterly erotic- and the _tightness_ \- that John felt his bollocks draw up. He was close, hovering on the edge and gasping as he chased that elusive second climax. He vaguely realized he was chanting Sherlock’s name over and over again and clawing at his hips. He reached around and gripped those _perfect_ round orbs and came snarling defiantly in the face of his own biology.

“Fuck! Yes!” John shouted, “Fuck yes! Take it!”

Sherlock made a strangled noise and came again, leaving John whimpering beneath him as they both went limp. John panted against Sherlock’s shoulder, which was pressed against his cheek, and stroked his hands up his sides in an attempt to preserve the perfection of this moment forever.

“John-“

“Don’t. Just let me lie here. I don’t want to wake up. Ever. Dose me with something to keep me in this dream state forever. I want a forty year coma that feels like sex and that great thing right after sex where you feel even better than the sex.”

“Afterglow, mainly due to a release of post-coital hormones, but _John-_ “

“No, Sherlock! I want this afterglow. Whatever you have to say, leave it.”

Sherlock was silent for all of five seconds while John basked and then…

“John you’re being _eaten_.”

“Mmm, that _was_ nice, but I think I’m empty,” John chuckled.

“No, John, by bugs. You’re being eaten by bugs.”

“FUCK!”

XXXXXXXXXXX

John devoured his breakfast like a starved man in between Sherlock blotting his buttocks and the backs of his thighs with Benadryl lotion. He was spread out on their bed, which they’d both fallen into somewhere around two AM and slept like the dead until morning. Sherlock had woken John up when he’d finished charging with breakfast and a mug of coffee already ordered for him.

“I think you might need something prescription,” Sherlock stated, his tone one of admiration for the insect kingdom, “You’re swollen _everywhere_. I think this might actually be some sort of poison oak, but it’s hard to tell with the bug bites _over_ it.”

“What are the big ones? Looks like leeches got to me.”

“Midges. They’re rather nasty. Despite being related to mosquitoes _and_ being smaller, they have mandibles and so _chew_ their way to your blood for a feast, thus making their bite much more uncomfortable than a mosquito bite. Normally they only go for babies and _very_ fair people, preferring soft skin, but they seem to have made an exception for the soft skin right below your arse…”

Sherlock demonstrated this by giving John’s buttocks a resounding slap.

“Mmm, that felt good. Do me a favor? Grab my belt and beat all my bug bites. Seems smarter and more efficient than scratching.”

“Pervert,” Sherlock teased, then gave him a soft kiss on the top of his head and a few more dabs of lotion.

“Sherlock, there’s one thing I don’t understand,” John wondered.

“There are many things you don’t understand, John, but I’m sure we’ll cover them all eventually,” Sherlock sighed as though put upon. John glared at him. “Oh, don’t, you know what I mean. What is it?”

“Why were _you_ affected by the whistle thing? I know you have ears, but you haven’t a brain like we have.”

Sherlock’s teasing smile vanished and he sighed and dragged the chair over so he could sit in it facing John while his lotion dried.

“You recall the point was to use dogs for mob control?”

“Yes.”

“You recall that five years ago, the week before android rights were passed, there were some protests by various run-away androids? Picketing?”

“It escalated into a mob, didn’t it?”

“Not quite. HOUND had been formally put to rest in the nineteen eighties, but it resurfaced when Mycroft started pointing out the chance that Androids were sentient. The politicians immediately saw that this could get ugly. Science fiction was _rife_ with stories about machines taking over the world and enslaving mankind. It was only a matter of time before it became deadly. So they tested a number of crowd control techniques on robots and got no results. Until someone- I’m assuming Dr. Franklin- brought up HOUND again. Originally Dr. Franklin was in mechanics, but he’d helped out on HOUND to make the devices used to deliver the high frequency sounds. He reasoned that it would effect androids as well.”

“But how?”

“I’m getting there. They tested it, of course, but they only tested it on non-sentient _robots._ Lower intelligence levels and no chance of sentience at all, according to what I read. Those robots suffered internal signal interference that resulted in an emergency shutdown to preserve their function. It seemed to the politicians a perfect solution; if the robots did prove sentient then their crowd control harmed no one. If not, then disaster avoided and they could collect all the perpetrators and melt them down to scrap while they lay stunned on the ground.”

“It didn’t do that, though,” John stated softly.

“No. Instead it interfered with rational; just like you saw when I attacked you and before that when Henry planted the idea in my head there was a giant hound about to attack us. It also caused the pain circuits to trigger and caused overwhelming fear and anxiety.

“The picketing started out peaceful until another group showed up. Humans. They wanted androids gone and were afraid of the sci-fi futuristic nightmares in front of them. They’d convinced a group of firemen to give them a fire hose, tapped into a hydrant, and started spraying the androids. They thought the water would fry them, but as you know we’re made to be waterproof. They were only pissing the androids off and eventually several lost their tempers and started attacking the humans.

“Whatever fool had been in charge of re-instating HOUND hadn’t mentioned the effect it would have on humans. They set it off into the crowd and madness reigned. Now even those who had been trying to slink off with their tales between their legs or talk things down were running about. Some simply curled up and died- human and android alike- some attacked others, but most lay on the ground screaming in pain and begging the agony to stop, and a few attacked each other. ”

Sherlock took a deep, unnecessary breath, “Then they dropped the e-bomb.”

“Oh, gods.”

“I’d gotten away from the crowd at that point-“

“You were _there?!_ ” John was on his feet in an instant, eyes wide and hands grasping Sherlock’s cheeks to look him in the eyes as though to make sure he was still sentient.

“I was hiding, John,” Sherlock whispered, “I’d fled from the pain in my head in terror, screaming gibberish, straight into a nearby bank. The security camera caught me knocking a bank teller out of the way and locking myself in the vault she’d been exiting. It stopped the pain and sheltered me from the bomb that followed. I was the only android who survived amongst one hundred thirty-two.”

John sank down into Sherlock’s lap, straddling his thighs and wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You weren’t there,” Sherlock replied, stroking John’s hair, “You were in Afghanistan.”

“I should have cared. I heard about it. I just shrugged my shoulders. The android deaths weren’t even reported. Twelve humans died. I remember that part.”

“Yes, androids weren’t considered alive at the time.”

“Mycroft found you?”

“Mm, CCTV. He tracked me down and led me out of the vault, still sobbing like a child and begging him to make it better. It was disgraceful.”

“It was perfectly understandable. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

“Now that Dr. Franklin is dead, I imagine not,” Sherlock sighed, pushing John back, “He must have wanted to perfect his project, being the only one left working on it. Not to mention his name surfacing on it again might have brought to light his murder of Henry’s father years earlier. He had to make sure he had a way to protect himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d made it intentionally _worse_.”

“Gods,” John sighed, “Thank goodness it’s all over with.”

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, eyes drifting to the side, “The technology can’t be destroyed, it’s _sound_. It could be used against anyone at any point in time once again. A bit of research and testing and you’d have a weapon as effective as a tazer but with near unlimited range. So long as nothing is blocking it, sound can travel for miles.”

John kissed Sherlock’s forehead, “No more morbid thoughts, yeah? You owe me one other explanation.”

“I thought it was just the one?”

“You didn’t have to follow my orders last night- not that I meant to make any, mind you, it just sort of happened on account of… well… wanting to bugger you senseless.”

Sherlock smirked, “The Woman.”

“Sorry?”

“When she was in our flat telling me she wanted me on the desk? I didn’t comply.”

“Okay. Why?”

“No idea.”

“Sorry?”

“I can only assume my sentience is still evolving. I’ve reached a point I don’t have to obey commands that were part of my most basic functioning anymore,” Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

“That’s… that’s fantastic!” John beamed, and kissed him soundly, “Let’s go home and celebrate by me sleeping for two days straight and then us sleeping _together_.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned, “How much sleep do you meat-bags _need?_ ”

John laughed and began to dress and pack. On their way through the gorgeous countryside a woman was standing at the gate to her yard. They stopped at the sign, but before they could pull away she hurried forward and rapped on their window. John rolled it down.

“Have you seen my dog? A little brown terrier? Answers to Whiskey?”

“No, sorry,” Sherlock replied, not even turning his head to look at her. He hit the button to roll up the window.

“We could have told her _something_ ,” John stammered.

“Like that you shot Whiskey last night?”

“Oh. Yeah, not that.”

“Right then. Train leaves in half an hour. Let’s not delay.”

As they pulled away again John looked over his shoulder and watched her raise a dog whistle to her lips and blow, still looking around for her missing dog. He heard nothing, of course, but it ran a chill up his spine nonetheless.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/101151.html)


	26. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 26

"Sherlock!" John shouted, "Sherlock have you seen this?"

Sherlock came in from his bedroom, hands covered in motor oil and an odd looking bit of machinery in his hand that John didn't want to think about.

"What is it?"

"Someone was in our flat."

"Who?"

"Moriarty. Moriarty was in our flat while we were in Dartmoor. He left a  [ video on my blog ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enIwRGc8XlM) . _Hacked_ it and left a video!"

Sherlock glanced at the  [ blog page ](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/16amarch) , glanced at John, and then smirked: “Pull the other one.”

“I’m not joking, Sherlock, it’s all right here! He made a video of him poking around our flat!” 

John hit play and Sherlock’s smile vanished within the first two seconds. It became a worried intent look a few seconds later, morphed into alarm, narrowed into concentration, and then ended with Sherlock demanding John play the video three more times with the volume as high as it could go. Sherlock began to move around the flat, mimicking Moriarty’s movements, checking under and around things, and muttering to himself. He was treating their flat as a crime scene, but two hours later he stood up with a baffled look on his face and stared at John in alarm.

“Nothing. There’s nothing. No proof he was here, no idea what he did after the camera stopped rolling, and no clue why I can’t find any bloody _clues_!”

Sherlock was in shock and spent literally _days_ going over it again and again, re-watching the video, questioning Mrs. Hudson and the neighbors, and eventually phoning Lestrade and reporting the break-in and asking him to put it straight into unsolved crimes.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade stated, rubbing between his eyebrows as he flipped his notepad shut, “We don’t having an unsolved crime file that’s for break-ins where nothing was stolen or damaged.”

Sherlock shouted at him in a full rage, “I _will_ get down to the bottom of this, Lestrade! It’s only a matter of time! I _will_ put destroy his web and put that spider in jail where he belongs!” 

“Right, but in the mean time, there’s no…”

“ _Make one!_ ”

Lestrade raised an annoyed eyebrow, tore the notes he’d written out of his notebook, walked over to their bin, and dropped it in, “There. Found one.”

Sherlock was so busy sputtering and fuming that Lestrade was able to walk out largely uncontested.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/101588.html)


	27. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 27

It was Gregson who brought them their next case, the snippy detective stomping up the stairs and pounding on their door as though _they’d_ stolen the painting from Cecil Higgins himself. Sherlock sighed and extracted himself from the warmth that was John’s body passed out on the couch beneath him. He opened the door, shouted ‘Shut up!’ and slammed it shut again.

Sherlock utterly refused to leave the flat and had for the last three days since Dartmoor. John thought at first it was a fear of Moriarty, but it turned out it was more of a petulant sulk. That and he seemed to be watching every move and breath John took. This, however, was the last straw.

“Sherlock, you do realize that we pay our bills with the money from cases?”

“I’m aware of that, yes.”

“And that my pension doesn’t cover my half of the rent _and_ the other various needs we sacks of meat have?”

“Duly noted.”

“And that you’ve just slammed the door on a case?”

Sherlock sank back down onto the couch, straddling John’s body with ease and reached out to caress his cheek rather gently.

“I almost lost you. I need time to process that.”

John blinked, “Almost lost me how?”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock laughed lightly, “You’re so _vague_ sometimes.”

“Oh, you mean when you insulted me until I moved out? Now I remember.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock replied, “I’m trying to be sincere.”

“Oh, do go on then,” John rolled his eyes.

“You recall Lestrade threatening me with shut down? And me being terrified? And me begging you to find me again once my memory was erased?” Sherlock asked, his eyes flashing in anger.

“Yes,” John replied, face serious as he realized Sherlock _was_ being frank with him.

“I was terrified, John. It never occurred to me that Mycroft would use that code to force me into doing something he wanted: manipulate me, yes, but not coerce me in a way I have no defense against. I would have just shut down and then woken up with no memory of having known you. I would have lost everything that has given my life _meaning_ for the last year. You, John Watson, have become more important than the Work.”

John stared up at Sherlock in absolute shock, humbled and with a fluttering feeling in his stomach.

“Budge up, yeah?” John asked, nudging his hips at Sherlock, who folded himself into a corner of the couch with a vulnerable look on his face, “Sherlock, I… gods, ‘I love you, too’ sounds so miniscule in comparison to what you’ve just said. I do, by the way. Love you.”

“That’s good,” Sherlock nodded, “It’s a start, at least.”

“A start?”

“Androids may have been given freedom and autonomy, but there are still many things we haven’t been given. Until you were willing to open one with me, for instance, my bank account was only a card I could deposit funds on. I wasn’t allowed a checking or savings account. I’m also not allowed to vote, hold office or… marry.”

John’s breath stilled and then stuttered out of him again, “You’re saying you want to marry me?”

“I’m saying I want to know that you will be here for me no matter what happens, John. That if I wake up tomorrow alone and confused you’ll be there to make the world rational again. That my dedication to you, which has reached heights I’m unable to define, is as high as your dedication to me. Marriage isn’t something I’d care to have with you simply because marriage isn’t permanent; divorce has made it virtually obsolete even between two humans. I want more than your ‘hand in marriage’, John. I want you.”

“Gods,” John breathed, “I don’t know how to respond, I… Gods, Sherlock, I’m yours. I am. I just don’t know how to show you that I am.”

“Neither do I, which is why I need time to process this new thing between us.”

John crawled forward, tugged the androids legs to unfold him from his protective ball, and laid his head in Sherlock’s lap.

“Whenever you’re ready, Sherlock. Just let me know what I should do.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Two days later the current curator of the The Higgins in Bedford showed up at their door in tears and Sherlock finally deigned to let someone into their little sanctuary. John had been subdued the last two days, sticking close to Sherlock unless he had to use the loo. Sherlock had even joined him for a shower that morning and they’d washed each other before slowly stroking each other to completion, their lips caressing in something not quite a kiss as John’s breath stuttered and gasped. He’d nearly sagged in Sherlock’s arms when he’d come, and the android had clutched him close and simply held him while the man’s legs shook from the aftermath of pleasure and exposed emotion.

Then reality hit and John found himself composed and listening to Mr. Williams’ story with a notepad in his lap and one eye on his composed… lover? Boyfriend? Partner? All of those terms sounded weak in comparison to Sherlock’s new definition of ‘love’. John’s distracted mind wondered what the sentience test would show now.

“You’re saying that the painting vanished before your eyes,” Sherlock deadpanned, his incredulity at the man’s eyesight and/or intelligence clear in his voice.

“Yes, which is why I’m prime suspect. The guard left the room, the lights were turned out, and I was in my office across from where the painting is displayed. I looked up at it, turned off my lights, and noticed a sort of lightening from the wall. It seemed curious that the wall would seem _lighter_ when I had just extinguished the only remaining light source besides the exit lights, so I walked towards it in the twilight glow and saw the wall was bare! I ran for the guard and he called the police, but it wasn’t until they arrived that I realized I was the _only_ suspect by my own testimony!”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock replied softly, “Though of course I’ll have to verify your statement by inspecting the scene.”

“Anything you want, Mr. Holmes, sir. Anything! I’ve not been arrested yet for some reason, but I’m sure to be any day now!”

Sherlock snorted, “They’re waiting for you to lead them to the painting, of course.”

Mr. Williams looked horrified, but Sherlock stood up with that cat-like grace he had and flowed towards the bedroom.

“John! Get dressed! The game is on!” He shouted over his shoulder, “This has Moriarty written _all over it!_ ”

“Who?” Mr. Williams asked.

“Criminal mastermind and all around bastard,” John replied, “Also a bomber and someone who would likely consider himself above petty theft, to my knowledge, so gods only knows how he’s decided the wank- _criminal_ \- is involved.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock inspected the scene with the vibrating excitement he showed on every case that had his full attention. John stood uselessly to one side since there was no corpse to examine. Well, not entirely uselessly. Sherlock’s eyes would occasionally wander from what he was doing to simply stare quietly at John as though looking to him for approval. When he did so John would grin and nod or ask him if he needed anything. Once he told him he was handsome just to say it and Sherlock blushed and smiled, ducking his head like a shy teenager. Mr. Williams looked disgusted.

_I really have to ask him about that blush function. Is it to seem more realistic like the breathing is or was it added later so Sherlock could express himself once they knew he was sentient? Or was it so he could show arousal as a pleasure bot?_

Sherlock straightened finally, glanced Mr. Williams over as though looking for a clue on him as well then walked up to John and kissed him soundly.

“It was the guard, of course,” Sherlock stated.

“I’d assumed, but how?” John asked.

“Assumed or deduced?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes critically.

“Assumed, based on the idea that Mr. Williams is innocent.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion.”

John shrugged lightly, “Instinct.”

Sherlock blinked, “An innate, typically fixed pattern of behavior in animals in response to certain stimuli would not inform you of someone’s innocence.”

“Try definition number two,” John snickered.

“A natural or intuitive way of acting or thinking.”

“Right.”

“What do I see in you? You’re completely ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Love’s more complicated than a case, Sherlock,” John laughed.

“Obviously,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Mr. Williams, I need to see your office. You said it was this one here, across from the painting?”

“Yes, but the guard never entered there…”

“Not in your presence, no, but that would be stupid of him, wouldn’t it? He has keys to your office?”

“I suppose. The janitorial staff does as well, I believe.”

“You suppose,” Sherlock sighed, “Let’s take a look, shall we? We should find evidence to incriminate you within, which the police will have missed because they’re imbeciles and Moriarty keeps hoping they’ll be more clever. Pity, he should have just sent me a message on John’s blog so I could get involved straight away. I believe he goes under the pseudonym ‘The Improbable One’.”

“That’s Moriarty?!” John stammered.

“I suspect so,” Sherlock replied, going over the office with his usual attention to detail, “Ah, here it is.”

“But I haven’t done it!” Mr. Williams protested, “I swear to you, I haven’t! Why would there be evidence to the contrary in my office? You just said it was the guard!”

“It was, but he needed someone to frame to keep the spotlight off of him while he negotiated the paintings sale. It’s nothing personal, if that makes you feel better. Your office just happens to be right where he needed to place this.”

Sherlock held up a small device with a lens, which he started prodding at with a small screwdriver he drew from a kit in his pocket. A light flickered on the top of the device and then the painting of The Falls of Reichenbach appeared on the wall again, but it was opaque and clearly a projection.

“But how did…” John stammered.

“This is a projector of sorts, but it won’t be the only one. We need to find the rest. They may have been removed, sadly. John you look at the ground below the painting, Mr. Williams take the right side of the room, and I’ll climb the rafters.”

They split up and John quickly found the projector in the covered floor outlet right beneath the painting. The outlet cover was propped open with a bit of chewing gum so the projector had a way to shine through the metal casing. He placed the gum in an evidence bag and looked up at the ceiling where Sherlock was climbing about like a monkey.

“Found it!” Sherlock cheered, then dropped like a stone to John’s absolute horror. He twisted in the air and landed on his feet like a cat and John fought the urge to deck him.

“I think… yes, here it is!” Mr. Williams called.

“One more and we’ll be set,” Sherlock stated and strode over to the left side of the room where he pulled a projector from the frame of another picture, “There then. These four projectors create a seemingly solid image. Unless someone walked over and touched it they wouldn’t know it wasn’t real. Now, should the beam from one of them be cut off it would disrupt the projection, but as long as the other three were going it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who wasn’t an android. John, do you know why?”

John thought a moment, “Because of the way we process sight?”

“Precisely! Humans don’t see 100% of what is in front of them. They process bits of it, because it would be overwhelming otherwise, and your brain will automatically correct when you see something your brain says you shouldn’t or that is impossible. Optical illusions, they’re called, though really they’re your brain performing a kind of psychological trick on you.”

“So if the painting flickered and grew slightly translucent because one of the beams were cut off…”

“The person viewing the painting wouldn’t even notice because their brain would tell them it wasn’t happening. They would still _see_ it as a solid image. John, do you know what this means?”

“The painting was stolen by the guard,” John replied, “He shut off the projection on his way out to frame Mr. Williams knowing he’d report it immediately and be the only one present!”

“No, no, the absence of light shut it off automatically and the projection was turned off afterwards because it had served its purpose. But that’s not what is _important!”_

“You know where the painting is, then?” Mr. Williams exclaimed in excitement.

“It’s being auctioned off to a Swedish dignitary, I found that on the internet this morning. The police force is truly incompetent at any type of legwork, but they do make their arrests in a decent fashion. Lestrade is on his way to intercept it. But that’s not what is _important_.”

“Well what is, then?” John asked in confusion.

“Moriarty is an android.”

 

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reichenbach_Falls>

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cecil_Higgins_Art_Gallery_%26_Bedford_Museum>

<http://www.thehigginsbedford.org.uk/default.aspx?page=0>  
  
 

[CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/101730.html)


	28. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 28

“Fascinating,” Sherlock stated, studying the letter in front of him, “At first glance this letter is in English, but if you look closely the grammar and spelling mistakes begin to inform us of the author’s originating country.”

“Okay, Professor Higgins,” John quipped, “So that narrows it down to one country that could have taken him?”

“On the contrary, my dear Colonel Pickering,” Sherlock joked right back, “it narrows it down to three.”

“Oh good, more areas to search while a wife and ten year old boy panic at home. Could I remind you that you looking gleeful is a bit not good? It gives them false hope and they’re already counting on ‘the Reichenbach Hero’ to save their beloved family member.”

“False hope?” Sherlock asked, his tone insulted as he looked up at John from the mailbox where the ransom note had been received, “You sound as if you don’t expect me to find him!”

“I’m more worried about you finding him _alive_ , Sherlock,” John replied, “This was a rather brutal situation.”

“John, may I remind you he was abroad? We now have proof no English citizens performed this act. He was in Georgia, so that means that the likelihood increases that if no _Englishman_ -“

“-Or woman.”

“Your progressive stance is irritating at times. Very well. If no English _person_ kidnapped him, than the chances are he was kidnapped by someone in the country he resided in: ergo a Georgian. That this letter was clearly written by someone whose first language was Kartuli only makes that far more likely.”

“My progressive stance allows me to have a sex bot as a boyfriend despite the fact my father’s stopped talking to me because of it.”

“Ha! You’re secretly thrilled that he’s stopped speaking to you.”

“True, now what about wiping that grin off your face?”

“Well how _should_ I look?” Sherlock asked in frustration.

“That’s good, or a bit grim. We all know how many kidnappings end in deaths, Sherlock, don’t give them false hope.”

Sherlock sighed and schooled his features into one of grim frustration.

“What makes you think I can’t find him alive?”

“He’s been missing five months, Sherlock,” John stated softly, “That we just got a ransom note now might mean it was lost in the mail, not that he’s still alive.”

Sherlock looked annoyed, but nodded his head nonetheless, “Granted, that might be true, if this ink were older than four weeks. Of course, I suppose he _could_ have died in those four weeks.”

“You can’t possibly know…”

“You should read my website more thoroughly, John,” Sherlock snapped irritably, “Tobacco ash categorization and watermark studies are _important_ to the field of deduction. I’ve also done a study on ink and it’s various states. I can determine from a glance what kind of pen the ink is from, what country the ink was made in, and when it was last wet within a four day margin.”

“Okay, that’s pretty impressive, but what if the kidnappers didn’t even write it or wrote it as a lark?”

Sherlock blinked, “I don’t believe I have records on kidnappers performing an act _for a lark_ , but there is some precedence to someone writing a note as a prank.”

“Good, okay, so long as you realize you aren’t necessarily going to _win_ this one, yeah?” John replied, adding a bit of disgust to the word ‘win’.

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock sighed, “Leave it to you to ruin my fun.”

“A man’s life is at stake, Sherlock, it’s not _fun_.”

“Well it’s not _anymore_ ,” Sherlock sighed.

Sherlock held the letter up to the light and then laughed out loud, “Unbelievable! Either this letter is a fake or the kidnappers really are that stupid!”

“You’ve found something?” Mair Shaw, the victim’s wife, turned from her discussion with Gregson on the other side of the room and gave Sherlock a hopeful look.

“The watermark on here. John, I _told_ you watermark studies were important! It’s from the Georgian Armed Forces, more specific from the paperwork logo used _before_ they were rebuilt after their battles in 2008 with South Ossetia. This is clearly from a splinter cell. There’s no way it’s a prank now, John! Only a splinter cell would keep the old paper mast and use it to send a ransom note! It’s basically a note within a note!”

“So some madcap militia has him?” Gregson asked.

“So it would appear, but why wait until now to send a ransom note?” Sherlock wondered aloud.

“We haven’t got that kind of money,” Mrs. Shaw sobbed.

“Obviously they’re trying to rebuild their army and stage a coup,” Sherlock continued to himself, “But why this man and why now? Perhaps it took them this long to figure out whom to send the note to? When did this kidnapping first appear in the papers, John?”

“Four months ago,” John replied automatically. He usually searched the papers for Sherlock in order to locate him cases, “They kept it hush hush for a while hoping not to alarm the kidnappers.”

“His actually abduction was caught on tape. The men were in uniform, but of course the Georgian Armed Forces denied any connection, and they weren’t connected. Not directly.”

“So now what?”

“They must be isolated if it took them that long to figure out who to send the bill to-“

“- _Sherlock_ ,” John’s voice warned.

“Which means we need to figure out _how_ isolated so we can work out where they are. John, I need all the newspaper articles regarding this situation. Focus on the international stories, and then we’ll go towards local. It’s possible they have someone here to keep an eye on this, but I doubt it. Still better to err on the side of caution.”

“Right then,” John nodded and watched Sherlock rush to the house off on his own leads. John headed over to the wife to make sure she didn’t freak out at Sherlock for his behavior later.

“Mrs. Shaw, we’ll do everything we can for you and your family,” John assured her, giving her hand a firm shake, “But after five months…”

John let it hang and she nodded her head. Likely the police had already told her the same thing. A glance at Gregson let him know he was right.

“We haven’t got a million pounds, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Shaw told him, her voice raspy from crying, “If we did I’d give it up to get my husband back without a second thought…”

“They’re likely expecting you to liquidate assets or perhaps are just a bit delusional as to how much the average European has in England. For all we know they’re expecting you to rob a bank for the money. You did say your husband was a banker?”

“Investments, mostly,” She replied, “We’re well off, but a million pounds? Even if they asked for a million in _their_ currency it wouldn’t help.”

John’s eyebrows lowered, “They didn’t, did they? They asked for a million… pounds… excuse me.”

John hurried out the door texting Sherlock as he went.

**Why did they say pounds instead of whatever currency is used in Georgia? – JW**

**Lari. Why indeed? The game is on! – SH**

XXXXXXXXX

The drop-off for the money was at Heathrow Airport, so Sherlock and John arrived there an hour ahead of time. John sat at the Bridge Bar drinking virgin versions of various drinks and pretending to get pissed. Sherlock posed as a businessman whose flight was delayed and made a stink pacing back and forth while on a cell phone. When Mrs. Shaw came in there was, of course, no one following her because they were already _there._ She made the drop in the ladies 2 nd stall (it was supposed to be marked ‘out of order’) and hurried out just as she had been told to do. They watched as an older woman walked into the ladies toilet ten minutes later and walked out with the bag almost immediately after. John and Sherlock both got a decent look at her, but neither moved to intercept her.

The money within was counterfeit, of course. Sherlock had shown up with it, causing quite the uproar at the Yard for having a million in counterfeit notes. He had a plan, though, so everyone had calmed down almost immediately. The money was traceable; thanks to the small bit of metal he had in the ink it would set off metal detectors everywhere and in bundles a magnet would even stick to them. They’d had to get the airport to turn their detectors off for Mrs. Shaw, but on the way out the door there were none set up so she simply walked right out. Now they simply had to trace her, but Sherlock was certain that he already knew whom she was and where she was going.

Since Sherlock was always right, no one batted an eye. They simply pulled up to the apartment buildings listed and knocked on the door to the flat of Sherlock’s prime suspect.

“Deanna Troy,” Sherlock smirked at the woman who opened the door for them. She had a toddler on her hip.

“Yes?” She asked.

“We’re here to see Mr. Shaw, if you please.”

“He isn’t here,” Deanna stated, but her face paled considerably.

“Oh, I think he is, and I also think one million dollars are here as well. Come now, either you let us in or we’ll pull out our metal detector and find it ourselves. With your cooperation the courts may go easy on you; I already know it wasn’t your idea.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!” Deanna burst into tears, “If I knew where Peter was, do you think I’d leave Mair in the dark? I’m as devastated as she is!”

“You’re telling the truth,” Sherlock stated, his expression confounded, “Are you telling me you’re close to Mair? That you’d reveal the affair to her?”

“What affair?” Deanna sniffled, “We’re in an open relationship. Mair knows Peter and I are together. We have a son together! His children with Mair play with mine all the time. They’re siblings and they know they are.”

Sherlock looked even more confused, “John, what is she talking about?”

“Polyandry, Sherlock. He isn’t having an affair, he’s dating outside of marriage with his wife’s permission, maybe even her encouragement.”

“She picked me herself,” Deanna sniffled, “We went to high school together.”

“But that’s… how is that possible?” Sherlock asked looking lost as he glanced from John to Deanna, “His photos gave every indication of a _happy_ marriage.”

Sherlock pushed past Deanna and started rifling through her flat.

“Sherlock!” John called, and then turned to the shocked woman, “I’m terribly sorry. He’s trying to find your boyfriend. If you’ll just put up with his rude behavior, he might find something important that you didn’t even know was there.”

“Peter hasn’t been here in a year. He was abroad for work,” Deanna explained miserably, “We were talking over video chat, but that’s it. I haven’t even gotten letters. He e-mailed me. I can pull them up?”

“Do so,” Sherlock ordered, “This makes no _sense!_ John. Look at these pictures. What am I missing?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock, they just look like pictures to me,” John replied, looking at the photos of Deanna, her son, and Peter Shaw. There was one of the whole family, the half-siblings looking as happy and content as any group of children made to sit still for a picture would.

“Yes, and?” Sherlock insisted.

John shrugged, “They look happy.”

“ _Exactly_. This has to be manufactured. They must all be fake. Or Mair Shaw’s pictures are fake.”

“Okay, why?” John asked.

“Because there’s no way he could love _both_ of them equally.”

Deanna twisted round in her desk chair and gave him an affronted look, “I beg your pardon!”

“You should,” Sherlock snapped.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John snipped, “Just because you don’t understand their lifestyle doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

“But, John, it doesn’t make _sense_ ,” Sherlock whinged, “It hurts so much already just to love _you_ , how on Earth could someone love a second person?”

John took a deep breath and opened his mouth to explain when Sherlock’s entire face twitched and he stared at him in alarm.

“Sherlo-“

“Do _you_ love someone besides me?” Sherlock’s voice had turned soft, but John wasn’t fooled into thinking it a tender question. Warning bells were going off in his head.

“No!” John replied while throwing his hands up, but Sherlock strode forward and gripped one of his wrists, twisting it painfully as he jerked John closer, “Ow! Sherlock you’re hurting me!”

“Do you?!” Sherlock shouted at him.

“NO!” John shouted back, trying to free his hand from the steely grip.

“Holmes!” Gregson shouted, brandishing his billy club, “Let him go!”

Sherlock glanced in alarm at John’s face, then over at Gregson, down to John’s wrist, and then let him go and stepped back in alarm.

“John, I…”

“Get out!” Deanna shouted angrily, “Get out of my flat this instant! You’ve no right to bring this in here in front of my son!”

“We’ll just be going ma’am,” Gregson agreed, ushering John and Sherlock out.

John was rubbing his wrist while Sherlock was looking confused and alarmed.

“I was wrong,” Sherlock stated, his tone one of absolute shock, “I thought Shaw was in on it with his mistress and I was _wrong_.”

“You were lots of things, Sherlock, wrong is just one of them,” John snapped.

Sherlock gave John a rather dazed look, “John, you don’t understand. I’ve been a bit off before, I’ve missed things, I’ve even had a case or two I couldn’t solve at all, but I’ve never been flat out _wrong_.”

John opened his mouth to shout something probably quite horrible at Sherlock, but Gregson interrupted them both.

“You want to press charges?”

John’s wrath deflated in the face of the frightened look on Sherlock’s face. There was only one punishment for sentient robots that were proven guilty of any kind of assault. Deactivation.

“What? No,” John stated firmly, “I’ll deal with him myself.”

John turned then and headed for the edge of the pavement, flagging down a cab.

Sherlock hurried after him, “Deal with me how?”

John got into the cab without answering him, “This one’s mine, you get the next.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, baffled once more.

“Because otherwise you might _talk_ ,” John slammed the door in his face and spouted out Lestrade’s address. Hopefully his couch was comfortable. 

XXXXXXXXX

“Thanks for putting me up,” John sighed as he expertly wrapped his wrist.

“You going to tell me how that happened?” Lestrade asked gruffly.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so,” Lestrade sighed, “Do I need to start checking you for bruises?”

“I’m not some helpless…” John sighed, not wanting to make a sexist comment, “I’m not a victim. I’m here because I’m not putting up with Sherlock’s bullshit. Here I am. Standing up for myself.”

“On my couch,” Lestrade deadpanned. John glared at Lestrade, but the proffered beer was balm enough, “So what are you going to do?”

“Give him time to think. Sometimes so much goes on in that processor of his that he shunts things to the back that you and I would have in the front.”

“Hmm, sounds like Mycroft.”

“Oh? You two finally hitting it off?”

“I’m a married man, John,” Lestrade snorted.

“With your own flat.”

“Point.”

“I think that makes us even,” John snorted.

They clinked bottles and downed the dregs.

“Another?”

“Fuck, yes,” John belched.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**John is angry. What is the proper procedure for apologizing between same-sex couples? – SH**

**You’re asking me? – M**

**You tell me when I don’t know human protocol. How does this differ? – SH**

**It’s your relationship, Sherlock, not mine. – M**

**If it WAS yours, what would you do? – SH**

**Not sprain my lover’s wrist. – M**

**He’s injured? – SH**

**Why do you think he’s angry, if not because you hurt him? – M**

**I assumed because I accused him of cheating on me. He didn’t seem hurt when he left. He chose not to press charges. – SH**

**He was angry. He probably didn’t acknowledge it until later. Him not pressing charges was being a decent person. Apologize. – M**

**We are back to ‘how’ again. – SH**

**I am unsure of the protocol for apologizing to your boyfriend after physically assaulting him and groundlessly accusing him of infidelity. – M**

**And yet your summation of my crimes was perfect. – SH**

**Thank you. – M**

**I hate you sometimes. – SH**

**Siblings often do, dear brother. Good luck. – M**

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade answered the door to find Sherlock standing on the other side, dressed in a light blue tux with a dozen red roses in a clear vase under one arm and a large box of chocolates under the other. The chocolates had a big pink bow around them and Sherlock had a huge fake grin plastered on his face. He looked like a cross between an escort to a debutant ball and a cheesy St. Valentines Day advert.

“John! It’s for you!” Lestrade chuckled.

John came around the door, fuming and ready to spit vitriol, but burst out laughing at the sight of a courting Sherlock Holmes.

“What?” Sherlock asked, his broad grin dropping.

Lestrade and John were leaning on each other at this point, pointing like school children.

“ _What?!_ What did I get wrong? This is what the internet said…”

John and Lestrade laughed harder, John clutching at Lestrade with his good hand while tears rolled down his cheeks. Sherlock put the flowers and the chocolates down on the hall floor, his expression one of frustration, and dug in his pocket. He produced a rather large and gaudy diamond bracelet. Both men paused in their hilarity to gape at it. John giggled and that started Lestrade off again and they were soon leaning on each other again, guffawing until they could barely breathe.

“That’s it!” Sherlock shouted angrily, throwing the bracelet on the ground, “I was going to apologize, but you can forget it now! I won’t be a source of entertainment for you! In case you haven’t forgotten this is _entirely_ new to me! So unless you’d like your cock sucked as a form of apology the least you could do is drop me a hint!”

Sherlock spun on his heels and stormed off down the hall. John, who had stopped laughing the moment the bracelet was thrown, took a moment to feel like a complete arse and chased after him.

“Sherlock! Wait! I’m sorry, Sherlock. Hold on.”

Sherlock had reached the lift and had hit the button hard enough to damage it. He was tugging off the ridiculous blue bowtie and jacket as John came up behind him. He jerked out of John’s grasp and started on the cummerbund.

“Sherlock, you just caught me off-guard. I didn’t mean to laugh at you. I was laughing at… the situation. I mean, you should see yourself,” John chuckled.

“I don’t find my wondering if you were going to leave me for good to be _funny_ , John.”

“I wasn’t… I was just mad and hurt, Sherlock.”

“I never _meant_ to hurt you, John,” Sherlock replied, casting a guilty look to the side, “I lost control. I realize that. Just the thought of you with someone else…” Sherlock shuddered, “I couldn’t bear it. All I could think of was Marie and Sebastian fighting just before they threw me out…”

“Sher, I’m sorry,” John started, but Sherlock stepped into the lift and hit the button to close the doors, “Sherlock, wait!”

John stuck his arm out, his bandaged one, and the doors bounced off it and open again. Sherlock was staring at his arm with a look of horror on his face when John stepped in. He very gently took hold of John’s elbow and examined his wrist with carefully prodding fingers as the doors to the lift shut.

“I can’t believe I did this to you,” Sherlock stated softly.

“It was a bit of a shock for me, too,” John replied, “You gave me a scare, Sherlock. All I could think of was all the women we’ve seen walking into the Yard with black eyes.”

“I never meant to hurt you. I mean that. It’s not just a platitude.”

“I know,” John tilted Sherlock’s chin up with one finger and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, “I’d go nuts at the thought of you with someone else, too. Just… _trust me_. I’m not them, Sherlock. I don’t deserve to be punished for them, either.”

“I don’t want to punish them, no matter what Mycroft may have said to you,” Sherlock sighed.

“You don’t?” John asked in surprise. The lift had started moving on its own, but Sherlock hit the emergency stop, “Sherlock, I don’t think we’re allowed to…”

“I don’t hate them. I mean, I do, but I don’t. It’s all confused, John,” Sherlock told him, his customary blank in place to preserve his dignity, “My answers to the sentience test should be telling. I don’t understand the difference between love and hate. Oh, I _know_ I love you and don’t hate you, but with them? The lines are blurred. They were my first introduction to everything. The first faces I saw. The first experiences I felt. I became sentient around them, while watching them interact and imitating them. In a way, they’re like my parents.”

John turned that over in his head, seeking out what little he knew of psychiatry. If he recalled correctly, a child of a sexually abusive parents would be reacting about the way Sherlock was. He both loved and hated them, feared and missed them, he’d gone out of his way to help Sebastian despite the fact he still treated him like a sex toy. While some sexual assault victims would become promiscuous, others would fear and loathe sex. John stepped forward and enfolded Sherlock in his arms, laying his head on his shoulder and- for the first time in a long while- wishing for enough height to do the reverse.

“I’ll never cheat on you, Sherlock. Never. If something comes between us I’ll tell you first, but I don’t see that happening. This is forever to me, no matter what the courts say about us marrying.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and held him tightly. It wasn’t until an hour later, when they were back at the Yard waiting for a bank or an airport to report the false currency, that John realized Sherlock hadn’t actually _said_ he was sorry.

The git.

 

A/N – Sigh. I really wanted elevator sex in this chapter, but it just didn’t fit in with the emotions. So in absolute defiance of my Muse (Navi) I’m writing you some elevator porn. This is an alternate version of this chapter starting from John getting out of the cab in front of Lestrade’s apt complex. It won’t factor into the actual story from here on out, so feel free to skip it if elevator porn isn’t your thing or you like the way the last ended.

**Had a row with Sherlock. Mind if I kip on your couch? – JW**

**NP. He being a wanker again? – GL**

**Not in the same way, but yeah. I just need to cool off. - JW**

John sent his text and looked up in time to see Lestrade’s complex. He hopped out, paid the driver, and walked to the front step to hit the buzzer.

“ _Yeah?”_

“It’s John.”

_“That was fast.”_

“Was already on my way. I figured you’d understand.”

“ _Understand Sherlock Fucking Holmes? Never. Get how it is to deal with him? Do I ever! Come on up.”_

The buzzer sounded and John pulled the door open. He was halfway to the lift when it opened, but the occupant didn’t step out when he waited so he just stepped in.

“Floor?” Asked a nasal voice.

“Six, thanks,” John barely gave the grey haired man a glance.

The lift started moving and John took a deep breath to calm himself. His wrist hurt and he suspected it was sprained, but he’d had worse. Far worse. Sherlock, however, was in the doghouse until that bastard apologized. John could understand him having difficulty dealing with the emotions of his first relationship- he was barely over seven years old where emotions came in- but that didn’t excuse getting violent!

Just then the old man leaned forward and hit the emergency stop button.

“What are you…?” John asked, but when he looked up at his face the old man was gone and Sherlock had taken his place, “You… you… I don’t want to talk to you right n-!“

Sherlock stalked towards John, his eyes dark and the look on his face somewhere between lust and murder. When John retreated in alarm he slammed both hands onto the walls of the lift, trapping John in the metal, mirrored corner. The blood was flowing south before his back even touched the wall. Once Sherlock had the doctor penned in he reached a deceptively gentle hand down and captured John’s arm just above his injured wrist. Very slowly, he raised it to his face and examined the trembling limb. He brushed a kiss just over scaphoid before lowering it back down to his side at the same rate that he slowly sank to his knees.

Sherlock’s eyes never left John’s, and John was frozen like a deer in headlights. When Sherlock released his wrist and began to undo his trousers John’s breath quickened but he couldn’t bring himself to protest. Sherlock gently freed John’s cock, sliding it through the fold in his pants, and ran his tongue from base to tip with a firm press of tongue. This was completely different from the way he’d handled John before, and a needy whine was torn out of him as Sherlock mouthed the tip of his now throbbing erection.

Down he was swallowed, into a hot wet cavern that had _no_ gag reflex programmed in. Sherlock bobbed his head to slick his cock up and then pressed his nose into John’s abdomen and began to _swallow_ over and again. The back of John’s head hit the wall and he gasped as pleasure shot up his spine and left him breathless. When he managed to open his eyes again he caught sight of their reflection in the shining walls around them. He could watch Sherlock suck him off from three different angles. The mirror to the left showed the man bobbing and slurping hungrily around his cock, moaning in that unbelievably deep voice. The one across- to the right of the door- showed Sherlock’s pert arse clenching a bit as he maintained his kneeling position. The mirror to John’s immediate right- to the left of the door- showed where his uninjured hand had tangled in Sherlock’s dark locks and was eagerly guiding him up and down his throbbing prick. John threw his head back again, completely undone by the pornographic sight, and then swore at what he saw above him.

The ceiling was mirrored as well.

John came with a strangled scream, his hips bucking as he frantically fucked Sherlock’s tight throat. The detective swallowed his seed down with a contented moan, lathing the tip until John pulled away with a hiss. Sherlock sat back on his heels and looked up at John through thick, dark eyelashes.

“Going someplace, John?”

“N-no,” John panted.

“Good, because I would be lost without my blogger,” Sherlock replied, standing slowly and hemming John in once more, “You wouldn’t leave me lost and alone, would you, John?”

“N-no,” John repeated.

Sherlock bent his head and pressed a gentle kiss to John’s lips, “Good, because I won’t leave you that way, either. I owe you more apologies than I can properly express… even from my knees. Come home. Let me take care of you. I’ll be the doctor this time.”

[CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/102141.html)


	29. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 29

Sherlock paced the floor as he waited for the calls to come in.

“What is taking so long?” Sherlock growled angrily, “The notes were clearly fraudulent. Anyone who works with money on a daily basis should have seen that _immediately.”_

“Maybe the criminals figured out they were fake?” John suggested hesitantly. Sherlock’s confidence was clearly shaken.

Sherlock frowned, “It’s a possibility, but I’d be surprised if they did considering the level of ineptitude they’ve shown so far.”

“Ineptitude? No one has found him in nearly five months,” Lestrade pointed out. He’d joined them upon Gregson’s request after Sherlock’s violent outburst. Gregson wanted Sherlock off the case, but Lestrade had talked him down.

“I wasn’t brought on the case until yesterday,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Don’t be humble or anything,” Lestrade smirked.

“I was referring to the fact that they hadn’t figured out how to send a ransom note in _five months_ ,” Sherlock reminded, “Which was why I hadn’t been invited into the case; until yesterday he was assumed dead in another country- one where androids still haven’t been freed and I am most definitely not welcome. Besides, you’d better hope they _didn’t_ notice the money was counterfeit.”

“Why?” John worried, but Lestrade answered for the silent and pacing consulting detective.

“Because they’ll kill him once they realize we’re trying to trace him. It isn’t worth it for the penalties for kidnapping in Georgia. They’d be better off finding someone else than hoping the next drop will be the real deal.”

John gave Sherlock a worried look, but he wasn’t making eye contact with anyone. After another hour he stopped pacing, grabbed a chair, and sat down opposite John with a determined look on his face.

“We have to go to Georgia.”

“You mean _I_ have to go to Georgia,” John corrected confidently.

“No.”

“You _can’t_ go to Georgia, therefore you meant _I_ have to go to Georgia.”

“No. I _have_ to go to Georgia. You’re welcome to come as well, of course. Unless you aren’t feeling up to it because of your wrist?”

“I’m not feeling up to it because I’d rather not see you _dismantled_.”

“Well,” Sherlock let out an unnecessary sigh for emphasis, and gave John a fake sad smile, “I’ll miss you during the flight. You’re so very cute when you sleep in those John-sized plane seats.”

“Of course I’m going,” John sighed.

Lestrade snickered, “John-sized plane seats?”

“Shut up,” John snorted.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was disguised as Lestrade and carrying his identification. Gregson was still the lead on the case, so he was accompanying them, but Sherlock and John took their first opportunity to lose him. Sherlock rented a car and they headed out to the Pankisi Gorge region in camo fatigues to help them blend in since Sherlock believed they’d be trekking through the woods.

“So the last time a splinter cell was located it was in Tblisi where he was kidnapped. The GAF believes they’re now located at the base of the mountain… here…” John pointed to the map in his lap.

“Hmm,” Sherlock nodded, glancing over at the map and then towards the road again.

“It’s really weird to see Lestrade and hear you,” John decided.

“I can do his voice, too if you like,” Sherlock stated _in_ Lestrade’s voice.

“That’s… I’m afraid to say what that is.”

“Terrifying?”

“Nope.”

“Weird?”

“Nope.”

Sherlock paused, glanced at John, smirked, “Sexy?”

“ _Only_ because I know it’s really you under there.”

Sherlock laughed, “Should I be worried?”

“Nope.”

They both chuckled a moment and John rubbed Sherlock’s leg and tried not to blush too much.

“Lestrade? Really?” Sherlock chuckled.

“No, you. You in disguise. That’s sexy, you know.”

“I can wear disguises for you.”

“R-really? You don’t think that’s too…”

“Kinky? I don’t mind kinky, John. Not with you. I’m not sure _what_ I’ll like or not, but costumes are fine.”

“Cop?”

“Sure, but I’ll be an _competent_ one, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes. Good. Competent is… good. Ahhhh, Professor?”

“As in a college professor?”

“Yeah.”

“Certainly.”

“Flight attendant?”

“Really?” Sherlock laughed.

“Well you _can_ say no,” John chuckled.

“Yes, I _can_ , but I won’t. I will, however, mock you mercilessly afterwards.”

“I can live with that,” John grinned, “Military?”

“Mmm, only if _you’re_ the C.O.”

“Oh, you want to hear me order you around, do you?”

“Mmmmmmm,” Sherlock purred.

“Keep doing that and we’ll be pulling this car over,” John flirted.

“We would need to stop driving… why?”

John nearly kinked his neck when he turned it sharply to stare at Sherlock.

“No, just no.”

“I just agreed to _four_ of your kinks…”

“Not while driving on a back road in the middle of nowhere going after mercenaries,” John snorted.

“Another time, then?”

“Maybe,” John snickered.

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh, “ _Fine._ We’re almost there, anyway. In fact… let’s walk from here.”

Sherlock and John slipped quietly through the foliage until they started to see signs of life.

“Barbed wire, mines, patrols… think we’re in the right place?” John whispered.

“Either that or there is one _hell_ of a fantastic party ahead.”

Eventually they reached an old farm, the house clearly their barracks and the barn seemed to be serving as a garage with jeeps and a rather alarmingly large gun.

“What _is_ that thing?” John asked.

“If you don’t know how do you expect me to?” Sherlock wondered.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, you know everything.”

“You’re ex-military, you know guns.”

“I’m stymied. Let’s just destroy it before we leave.”

“That’s your method? I don’t know what it is, let’s blow it up?”

“Ex-military.”

“Fair enough.”

Further exploration led Sherlock to decide that if they were going to hold the man hostage for this long, it wouldn’t be in the common areas.

“They’re too likely to form attachment. These are professional men; they’ll be maintaining POW conditions. He’ll be in a prison of some kind away from the main men but highly guarded. It’s possible a sub basement or a cellar of some kind.”

“The barn?”

“Unlikely with the vehicles in it.”

“Gods, not an outhouse. Please let it not be an outhouse.”

“Let’s hope not. I think… that outbuilding there. Let’s check there.”

John and Sherlock carefully eluded the guards, utilizing John’s military training to the full. When they reached the outbuilding Sherlock peered through some loose slats while John stood guard.

“There’s a trap door in there,” Sherlock whispered, “It’s a new addition. This is definitely it.”

“Padlock on the door?” John asked.

“Not anymore,” Sherlock replied, handing it to John and tucking the lock pick back in his pocket.

“Right.”

They slipped inside and John held the door shut while carefully looking out a crack to make sure they weren’t being snuck up on. Sherlock started in on the lock on the pit, but before he’d been at it more than a second John hissed at him.

“Guard approaching.”

“Hide.”

Sherlock climbed up into the rafters, pressing hands and feet to hold himself up like a bloody vampire, and John scrambled behind a case and made himself small….er.

The guard came in and opened up the trap door. Unfortunately by the time they realized this wasn’t a simple meal drop-off, another guard had already arrived and was covering the first from the door with the gun aimed and ready. A filthy man, smelling of refuse and shaking with his clothes hanging off his emaciated body, was pulled out of the hole. He squinted his eyes at the light as they dragged him out and into a car. Sherlock chased after them, clinging to the bushes. As John watched in horror, unable to get there quickly enough, Sherlock picked the lock and climbed into the trunk of the car while they were stuffing a mask over Peter Shaw’s face. Two more men joined the first pair and hopped into the back of the car with the masked banker.

John took several deep breaths and then hurried back to the car, but it took a good twenty minutes to get there without getting caught. Once he reached the car he got inside and snatched up his mobile and loaded Sherlock’s phone code, but it took him three times to enter the password since it was a random number Sherlock had chosen and John had just barely committed it to memory.

“Sherlock, you are so lucky I’ve done this before,” John breathed nervously as he began tracking his lover’s mobile.

John drove up for about 10 minutes before he found the car… abandoned. A quick check to his phone showed him that Sherlock was moving very slowly up the mountain. John bolted after them, barely attempting to be quiet. By the time he reached the top of the trail he knew that something was wrong. He smelled the blood long before he reached the scene, but had the presence of mind to slow down and move quietly. He had his gun drawn and the safety off, which was a good thing as three of the guards came charging towards him at top speed. John shot the first one before they noticed him, but the men had machine guns, so he knew he had to take them all out while he had the element of surprise or he’d be pinned down when he went for cover. John fired quick and as accurately as possible. Only one of them got a shot off before John shot him, and it went wide. The last man was still alive, the guard’s gun recoil having thrown off John’s aim, so he hurriedly shot him in the head and ducked into the gorse bushes on the side of the path.

Blood pumping, John took another deep breath and headed carefully through the brush, making as little noise as possible. He found the fourth guard’s body on the ground in a curve in the path, so he clicked the safety back on the gun. There was no sign of Sherlock or Peter Shaw. John checked his phone several times, but he’d lost the signal and couldn’t get it back.

“Okay, John, calm down,” John whispered, “Think like Sherlock. There’s still some light. Find them before you’re shit out of luck.”

John crouched down and studied the area around the corpse and then started widening the circle. He quickly found the trampled brush on the opposite side of the path to the one he’d climbed through. John carefully climbed down into the ditch and started tracking his lover and the second set of prints, which had to be Peter Shaw by process of elimination. He moved quickly since the light was quickly fading, but even with his increased pace he was eventually resorting to the use of his torch.

“John!” A voice hissed out of the woods.

John felt dizzy with relief as he staggered towards the voice and found Sherlock- still disguised as Lestrade in fatigues- with Mr. Shaw leaning on his shoulder. John shamelessly kissed and hugged his lover.

“I got the last three guards,” John whispered, “I’ve no idea if anyone heard the shots and followed us up. We weren’t far.”

“The sound shouldn’t have carried due to the trees,” Sherlock reassured, hugging John back.

“Why didn’t you _wait_ for me,” John growled in frustration.

“They were planning on killing him. I trusted you to take care of yourself. If it makes you feel better I was careful and I knew you would be as well,” Sherlock comforted gently, pressing another kiss to John’s cheek, “Very sexy taking out three armed men, by the way.”

John chuckled and they started to carefully make their way through the woods. They were moving very slowly because Peter was weak from his incarceration. During a break he told them he’d been in the whole in the ground for the entire time he’d been kidnapped. Sherlock did the math and it added up to an entire 141 days. When Peter heard how long it had been he began to weep, reaching a point where the reality of his situation set in.

“I never thought I’d survive, but I never stopped hoping,” the man sobbed onto John’s shoulder.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, but kept his manic energy to himself. John was glad he’d made the mad bot charge his battery before they’d left. If he’d run out in the woods they’d have had to pass him off as a corpse to get him home safely.

“Where are we headed?” John asked, voice still careful in the darkened woods once they’d managed to calm Peter down.

“Away from the militia,” Sherlock replied.

“Good plan. That’s a good plan.”

“I thought so.”

Of course, it didn’t feel like it when they suddenly stumbled on a group of men carrying guns and wearing uniforms, but though Peter panicked at first Sherlock and John saw that they were different uniforms. They’d stumbled upon the _real_ Georgian Armed Forces.

“Peter Shaw!” Sherlock shouted to explain their situation.

Everything sped up after that. Shaw was taken to a hospital and ‘Lestrade’ and John checked into a hotel for the night. They had a clean Mr. Shaw, who had at least been fed and watered during his capture, on a plane back home with them. His wife Mair and his girlfriend Deanna met him at the airport along with dozens of reporters and his children. However, he declined to make comment until they were outside of his home once more. There he posed with Sherlock- once more dressed as himself- and John to make his statement to the reporters with his wife and oldest son at his side.

“Back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal, and we have one person to thank for my deliverance: Sherlock Holmes,” Shaw announced to the applauding reporters.

James Shaw, his son, handed Sherlock a box, which the arrogant android shook before stating the contents.

“Tie pin. I don’t wear ties.”

“Shhh,” John hushed him.

 

 

top banker kidnapped – tie pin- wife & 10 yr old (ish) son

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tbilisi>

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgian_Armed_Forces>

[VERY loosely based off this article about a kidnapped Top Banker from UK](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-146383/Kidnapped-banker-reunited-family.html)

[https://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&tab=wl](https://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&tab=wl)

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgian_language>

  


[CHAPTER THIRTY](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/102234.html)

  



	30. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 30

WARNING: Serious squick in the links during the dialogue. View at your own risk!! Also, discussion of parasites. Why is this fic becoming one long line of nasty creepy crawlies?!

 

WORLD EXCLUSIVE: BOFFIN SHERLOCK SOLVES ANOTHER!

**Lestrade, were you looking for a criminal by the name of Peter Ricoletti, or was that someone else’s case? – SH**

**That was mine, why? – GL**

**Clubbed foot and a bit overweight? Looks like he should be in one of those ghastly mob movies John watches? – SH**

**You know where he is?! - GL**

**I stumbled across him. I may have to recalculate my studies on luck. – SH**

**Where? Do not engage! He is armed and dangerous! – GL**

**Actually he is heavily medicated and has a sinus infection, but judging by the crease in his jacket he does normally carry a weapon. – SH**

**You and your damn minor details! What’s his cold have to do with it?! WHERE? IS? HE?! – GL**

**No need to yell, and his sinus infection (which he’ll need antibiotics for once he’s in prison) has everything to do with it. He’s in St. Bart’s taking advantage of the teaching portion of the hospital for cheap medical care, probably to keep himself hidden. John’s been volunteering here to keep busy and keep his license up to date since our hours don’t allow him to maintain a ‘normal’ job. I came to pick him up and take him out to dinner because I was informed – by a reliable source this time- that couples do that sort of thing. Do you think he’s happy? If he told you he wasn’t, would you tell me? Of course you would. Never mind. – SH**

**Can you stall him until we get there? Make sure he doesn’t harm anyone? – GL**

**Not a problem. He has rupees on him, so I’m telling him a gruesome story about Rhinosporidiosis. – SH**

**Run that by me in non-Sherlock speak? – GL**

**He’s recently been to India- not that he knows I know that- so I’m describing to him an illness found in India that matches his symptoms which “a friend of mine once had”. That illness is a parasite that lodges itself in the sinuses 70% of the time, requiring surgical removal. In the early stages it might be mistaken as a cold since it causes postnasal drip, but it eventually develops into deep red polyps in the sinuses and can spread to the mouth, throat, genitals, anus, and larynx. He’s terrified and refusing to leave until he sees an infectious disease specialist. This is a bit fun! Here are the pictures I showed him.** [ **http://www.internationalarchivesent.org/conteudo/imagesFORL/11-02-19-fig06-ing.gif** ](http://www.internationalarchivesent.org/conteudo/imagesFORL/11-02-19-fig06-ing.gif) **,** [ **http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/85/Rhinosporidiosis.jpg/230px-Rhinosporidiosis.jpg** ](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/8/85/Rhinosporidiosis.jpg/230px-Rhinosporidiosis.jpg) **,** [ **http://www.stanford.edu/group/parasites/ParaSites2002/rhinosporidiosis/images/rhino1.jpg** ](http://www.stanford.edu/group/parasites/ParaSites2002/rhinosporidiosis/images/rhino1.jpg)

**Fucking hell, Sherlock! Give a man a squick warning, will you? – GL**

**Is that you outside now? – SH**

**Yeah, just arrived. Is he bolting? – GL**

**No, he hasn’t even noticed the lights. Why did you turn them on? Moron. – SH**

“Peter Ricoletti, number one on Interpol’s most wanted list since 1982. Well, we got him, and there’s one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads… with all his customary diplomacy in tact,” Lestrade stated, referring to the fact Sherlock had managed not to offend anyone this time around.

“Sarcasm,” John informed, knowing Sherlock missed it from time to time.

“Yes,” Sherlock acknowledged with a knowing tone.

Lestrade headed over with a big grin and a surprisingly large present.

“We all chipped in,” He informed them.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed towards Sally and Anderson, who were smiling an awful lot despite having contributed to a gift for Sherlock. John noticed it as well and gave him a worried look. Sure enough, he pulled out a grey deerstalker and the room erupted in laughter.

“Put the hat on!” The reporters chanted eagerly.

Sherlock stalled, that look crossing his face that John knew meant he didn’t know how to react in a social situation.

“Just get it over with,” John advised, and Sherlock passed him the wrapping with an annoyed glance.

They both plastered on grins- Sherlock’s was fake but John meant it- and the cameras flashed away.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“Boffin?” Sherlock scoffed, tossing the headline down on the coffee table, “Boffin Sherlock Holmes.”

“Everybody gets one,” John soothed.

“One what?”

“Tabloid nickname. ‘Sumo’, ‘Nasty Nick’. Shouldn’t worry. I’ll probably get one soon.”

“Page five, column six, first sentence,” Sherlock recited quickly.

Sherlock went on to rant about the hat while John turned to the paragraph in question and stared at it in horror.

“[Technosexualist](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robot_fetishism) John Watson?! Technosexualist, what the hell are they implying?”

“Why’s it got two fronts?” Sherlock continued without acknowledging John.

“It’s a deerstalker. ‘Frequently seen in the company of android Sherl… Technosexualist John Wats’…”

“What are you going to do, throw it?”

“ _Confirmed_ technosexualist, John Watson?!”

“Some sort of death frisbee?”

“Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful.”

“It’s got flaps. Ear flaps. It’s an ear hat, John!” Sherlock tossed the hat to John who caught it automatically, “What do you mean more careful?”

“I mean, this isn’t a deerstalker now, it’s a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean, that you’re not exactly a private detective anymore. You’re this far from famous,” John illustrated with his fingers.

“Oh, it’ll pass,” Sherlock groused, tossing himself down into a chair.”

“It better pass. Cause the press _will_ turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they’ll turn on _you_.”

“That really bothers you?”

“What?”

“What people say?”

“Yes.”

“It’s about me. I don’t understand. Why would it upset you?”

“You really need to ask that?”

“I never ask unnecessary questions, John, you know that.”

John sighed, “Because I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I won’t be. I don’t care what they say about me. You do.”

“Just… try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a _little_ case this week, stay out of the news.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You’re the one who started this with your _blog_.”

John sighed, but smiled nonetheless. On one hand he was grateful that they were getting attention because it brought in more cases, Sherlock was kept happy that way, and the money was pouring in. He was basically a kept man living off of Sherlock’s income and volunteering at St. Bart’s to keep his license active and his mind honed. Sherlock was doing everything possible to make their relationship work, and his communication was improving. Just last week he wouldn’t have thought to clarify John’s feelings about the press, he’d have just filed it under ‘silly things that bother John’ and left it at that. Overall John was happy and Sherlock slept- when he slept- next to John every night. He rarely ever had nightmares anymore, though John had often taken advantage of _other_ types of dreams.

Overall, everything seemed perfect.

 

 

[It's real!! I think I have a new fetish...](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robot_fetishism)   
  
  


[CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/102467.html)

 


	31. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 31

**WARNING WARNING WARNING – If you can’t stand to wait with wicked feels going on, stop reading now. After these next 2 chapters this fic will be on hiatus until I get to see the next season. I don’t have cable and Netflix is unreliable, so that may not be until I get the DVD’s. I have them pre-ordered but there’s no release date yet.**

“It’s your phone,” John prompted as he came out of the bathroom after his shower.

“Mmm, keeps doing that,” Sherlock acknowledged.

John ducked around the legs of the hanging mannequin and sat down in his chair with the paper.

“So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?” John asked, thinking of the movie Airplane as he teased.

“Oh, Henry Fishgard never commited suicide. Those street runners missed everything.”

“Shirley you can’t be serious?” John quipped, but it went over Sherlock’s head, “Pressing case, is it?”

“They’re all pressing to themselves.”

Sherlock’s mobile went off again.

“I’ll get it, shall I?” John sighed.

**Come and play.  
Tower Hill.  
Jim Moriarty x.**

“Here,” John stated, at a loss for less purposeful words.

“Not now, I’m busy,” Sherlock muttered, still fiddling with his microscope. John wondered when it would turn sentient and fight John in attempt to woo Sherlock away from him.

“Sherlock.”

“Not Now!”

“He’s back,” John replied, having difficulty controlling his breathing.

Sherlock glanced at John, took in his anxious state, and accepted the phone. Once he’d read the message from Moriarty he slowly rose to his feet. Sherlock gave John a strange look and opened his mouth to speak, but his phone rang before he could utter a syllable.

“It’s Lestrade,” He stated when John tensed. He put it on speaker for John’s benefit.

“Tell me,” Sherlock stated.

_“What do Tower of London, Pentonville, and the Bank of England all have in common?”_ Lestrade’s voice asked from the mobile.

“They’re the most secure buildings in London and I imagine they’ve all just been broken into, but I’ve very little data to go on. I believe you’ll find Moriarty there in person in the Tower. Do try not to shoot him until I have a chance to speak with him.”

_“It’s a joke Sherlock, you’re supposed to say ‘I don’t know, what?’”_

Sherlock blinked, “Did I get it wrong?”

_“No.”_

“Then I fail to see your point.”

“ _My point is the three most secure buildings in London have just been broken into and I’m trying to lighten the mood with a joke. Twat.”_

“John, tell Lestrade a joke,” Sherlock ordered, but John stared him down so he tried it himself, “Oh, fine. Three androids walk into a bar and order scotch on the rocks. The bartender says, ‘Why would you want alcohol when you can’t even get drunk?’ The first android replies ‘There are three of us, and since we are life forms that rely on computations it seemed sound to order something that came with cubes.’”

There was a pause on the other end and then Lestrade stated, “ _That was horrible.”_

“A sex bot, a maid bot, and a toaster walk into a bar looking for work. The bartender sends the toaster to the kitchen, the maid to the bar, and the sex bot to the bathroom. Ask me why he sent the sex bot to the bathroom.”

“ _Why’d he send the sex bot to the bathroom?”_

“All the stall doors were broken and he heard they could drill all night long.”

Lestrade snorted.

“Why are you wasting my time, Detective Inspector?” Sherlock asked.

_“Because they’re making me send a car for you.”_

“I don’t ride in-“

_“You’ll take it and not make a fuss. I need you here at the Tower. This is fucking serious, Sherlock, I mean it.”_

“I like you better when you’re telling jokes.”

“ _Okay, why was the android disassembled?”_

“Because humans are afraid of our superiority?”

“ _No, because he forgot that being an ass to humans was a dis so they had to re-ass-ess his value.”_

“Are you threatening me?” Sherlock asked in annoyance.

“ _Just reminding you that there are stakes bigger than your ego, Sherlock.”_

“Yes, and humans eager to run them through what functions as my heart. I understand Lestrade.”

“ _You’d better.”_

The line went dead and John followed Sherlock’s eyes to the window where lights were flashing from the panda wagon downstairs.

“John,” Sherlock’s fingers brushed John’s cheek and he turned with a startled jump, “John, I won’t let him threaten you again.”

“I’m a big boy, Sherlock,” John smiled softly, “I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t have to. Not when I want to,” Sherlock stated with all the tenderness of the toaster from his joke.

“I love you too, you bastard.”

Sherlock caught John against him and kissed him heatedly, but a pounding on their door halted the pounding of John’s blood into lower regions of his body.

“Another time,” Sherlock whispered, “Go and get dressed.”

**Daily Express: Crime of the Century?**

**Jewel Thief on Trial at Bailey**

**Amateur Detective to be Called as Expert Witness**

“And remember-” John coached as they sat in the cab on the way to the Bailey.

“Yes,” Sherlock cut him off.

“Remember-“

“Yes.”

“Remember what they told you. Don’t try to be clever, and please, just keep it simple and brief.”

“I’m confidant the star witness should come across as intelligent.”

“Intelligent, fine. Let’s give smart ass a wide berth.”

Sherlock seemed to consider that a moment, but then stated, “I’ll just be myself.”

“Are you even listening to me?” John snapped.

XXXXXXXXX

Once they reached the Bailey one of the reporters managed to crowd Sherlock and smudge him up. The perfectionist couldn’t allow it so he went into the loo to clean it up. John waited outside, not giving in to the urge to pace. Instead he stood with military precision until Sherlock re-emerged… followed by a red-headed woman.

“Was that a…?”

“Not important,” Sherlock replied, gliding towards the courtroom.

John watched the trial from the stands, proud of Sherlock’s brilliant wording even if he was being a pushy show-off. Sherlock never ceased to excite him when he was showing off. John wanted to bend him over and take him right on the witness stand. Of course, that was a fantasy even danger-hungry Watson wasn’t going to take. Sadly, Sherlock only had eyes for Moriarty and John could _feel_ the sexual energy between them. It made him territorial. It made him angry. It made him bloody aroused. His fantasies moved from bending Sherlock over in front of the audience to breaking up a shocking moment between Moriarty and Sherlock in their very flat in which John caught them in a compromising position, beat Moriarty’s lithe body with a chair until it was too damaged to function, and then fucked Sherlock over his remains while the springs went popping out of the bot and bouncing around the room with each thrust.

_Well, that’s just a bit not good. Sick even. I’ll have to tell Sherlock that one later. Wait, hang on, he’s in contempt already_?

“Anything else you say,” The judge was explaining, “will be treated as contempt! Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes _without showing off!_ ”

“The definition of the term ‘showing off’ is ‘to display proudly’ or ‘to seek to attract attention by conspicuous behavior’,” Sherlock spouted off very quickly, “Now I’ll grant you I’m _quite_ proud, but in this instance I was first aiding Miss Sorrel and second proving my reliability as a witness. Therefore none of my actions technically fall under ‘showing off’, and as you’ve stated that as a term of my accusation for contempt I’m afraid you’ll have to either re-define or excuse my behavior until you find more competent lawyers.”

John wondered if anyone had ever been processed for contempt charges as quickly as Sherlock was. It had to be a record. To top it off he wasn’t allowed to return to the courtroom for the verdict. Of course the wanker said he didn’t want to go anyway, but John was certain that was bunk.

“You sure you don’t want to make eyes at Moriarty anymore?”

“Jealous, John? I’ve no more an intention of being unfaithful to you than you do of being so to me.”

“A bit, yes, but you were sort of eye fucking him on the stand,” John teased, though there was real concern behind it, “And he is sort of another android and brilliant like you are, but in a scary… twisted way.”

Sherlock smirked and leaned forward to peck a kiss to John’s lips and straighten his tie for the final leg of the trial, “Not only are eyes incapable of sexual intercourse, but I have no interest in scary, brilliant, twisted, androids; just adorable, average minded, loyal, bloggers.”

“Oh, the things you say to woo me, Sherlock Holmes. Honestly, I don’t know how I keep my trousers on,” John snickered.

Sherlock gave him another quick buss, “On your way, and call me with the details.”

XXXXXXXXXX

John sat in shocked silence as they delivered the verdict of not guilty and rushed out the door. He called Sherlock immediately to warn him, desperately trying to hail a cab. Sherlock had his gun, of course, but that was hardly a comfort. The stubborn bot might not use it. Or he might use up all the ammo on the wall. Or he might decide to chop Moriarty up and study him to figure out why androids go bad and John would have to raise money for _his_ defense. None of it made any sense. Androids never got away with _anything_ , and here Moriarty was just waltzing back out after attempting to rob two places and damaging the security systems in a prison; and those were just the crimes humans would have been punished for. It was still illegal to remove an androids ID tag and barcode and Moriarty was missing his. While he’d been imprisoned an expert had examined him and found no clue as to his manufacturer… or the method he’d used to break into all those maximum-security locations.

John finally got a cab after ten minutes of trying and hurried back to Baker Street, but when he arrived Sherlock was sitting in deep contemplation and an apple with I O U carved into it and a knife sticking out, and leftover tea were all that proof that he’d had company.

**Moriarty Walks Free: Shock Verdict at Old Bailey Trial**

**Shock Verdict at Trial**

**How was he ever Acquitted?**

**Moriarty Vanishes!**

**What’s Next for Reichenbach Hero?**

XXXXXXXXXX

Two Months Later

John stopped by the ATM to pull out some cash for his date night with Sherlock. He was looking forward to seeing an opera with him and then having a nice dinner followed by ridiculous amounts of sex. The genius detective had just finished up with a case that had kept him busy enough to ignore John’s pleas for attention for a full week. After nearly daily sex before that, John was left a bit frustrated.

**There is a problem with your card  
Please wait**

_Sherlock if you drained the bank account to buy body parts, or a giant sex swing, or an x-ray machine I swear… well, I might forgive the swing._

**Thank you for your patience.  
John.**

_What the fuck? Moriarty or…_

A black sedan pulled up behind him and John gave it an eye roll and pulled his card back out of the machine.

_Bloody Mycroft Holmes._

This time John was taken to The Diogenes Club, Mycroft’s club for the most unclubbable men in London. John, however, wasn’t unclubbable and ended up making a social blunder that had him drug out like a bag of rubbish. Apparently there was no speaking at all allowed within the Diogenes Club, no sounds at all, in fact. One could get tossed out for sneezing loudly.

“Wouldn’t want a repeat of [1972](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1972_in_the_United_Kingdom),” Mycroft explained mysteriously. John didn’t bother to ask, “But we can talk in here.”

“You read this stuff?” John asked, holding up the latest rag.

“It caught my eye. Saturday they’re doing a big expose,” Mycroft noted.

“I’d love to know where she got her information.”

“Someone called Brook,” Mycroft stated, “Recognize the name?”

“He hasn’t had any other owners,” John shrugged, speaking of Sherlock, “He isn’t the sort to make friends, and when I ask him he just ignores me.”

“You might try the business section of the paper. I’m sure it would shed some light on that conundrum, but that’s not why I asked you here.”

Mycroft handed John a file.

“Who’s that?” John asked.

“You don’t know him?”

“Nope.”

“Never seen his face before?” Mycroft asked, voice still soft and casual.

“Umm.”

“He’s taken a flat in Baker Street two doors down from you.”

“Hmm, I was thinking of doing a drinks thing for the neighbors,” John sassed.

“Not sure you’ll want to,” Mycroft smirked, “Sulimani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly trained killer, living less than 20 feet from your front door.”

“Well, it’s a great location. Jubilee line’s handy.”

“John.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“Giachenko, Lyudmila.”

“Uhhhh,” John sighed, tired of Mycroft’s method of beating around the bush until you got frustrated and chopped it down for him, “Um, actually, I think I have seen her.”

“Russian killer. She’s taken the flat opposite.”

“Okay, I’m sensing a pattern here.”

“In fact, four top international assassins relocated within spitting distance of 221B. Anything you care to share with me?”

“I’m moving?” John laughed bitterly.

“It’s not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?” Mycroft asked, his face implying he didn’t expect John to do so.

“You think this is Moriarty?”

“He promised Sherlock he’d come back.”

“If this was Moriarty we’d be dead already,” John informed. He’d long since stopped sleeping with one eye open. You could only stay anxious for so long before it started to wear on you.

“If not Moriarty, then who?”

“I don’t understand,” John replied irritably, “Shooting Sherlock isn’t exactly the most efficient way to kill an android. Why hire assassins?”

“We both know what’s coming, John. Moriarty is obsessed. He’s sworn to destroy his only rival. What better way than through his weaker half?”

“They’re after me?”

“We’ve no evidence to support that theory… but no evidence to the contrary, either,” Mycroft explained.

John studied him for a moment, “So you going to give me a Kevlar vest or something? Put me in a protection program?”

Mycroft didn’t reply.

“Oh, I see,” John replied with a laugh, “You’re going to do nothing.”

“We have to draw Moriarty out. There’s no point in hiding from him.”

“I don’t hide, Mycroft Holmes,” John corrected, his voice gone cold, “I’m a soldier. If you don’t see me, it’s because I’m hunting you.”

John stood up and headed for the door.

“I certainly hope you can live up to your reputation, Captain,” Mycroft called after him.

John got back to Baker Street and found his eyes scanning all the faces, looking for the ones in the file and anyone else who struck him as military or ops training. Upon the stoop was a small, unmarked envelope with a wax seal. John tore it open, leaving the seal in tact in case Sherlock needed to see it, but all that was inside were breadcrumbs.

“Excuse me,” A man with a ladder croaked.

John stepped aside, uttering an apology automatically, only noting after the fact that it was one of the assassins. He sure didn’t look like one, though. Sherlock would probably be able to tell, was probably fully aware of the situation, but John was in the dark and he hated that.

John headed upstairs to show Sherlock the package, but was saw Sally and Lestrade were in the room. Apparently there’d been a kidnapping of an ambassador’s children.

Sherlock was heading out the door before Lestrade finished explaining the situation and they were left to trail after the eager android. At least they didn’t have to take a cab all the way to Surrey.

XXXXXXXXXX

John didn’t like the way Molly was shaking as she walked away from Sherlock in the lab. He really had to stop tormenting that poor girl. Of course, what was he going to say to him? Be nicer to her? John Watson still had a jealous side and only a fool wouldn’t see that Molly was mad for Sherlock and had more in common with him intellectually than John did.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock was visibly shaken after the little girl screamed at him in terror. During the cabride home he pressed close to John, pulling him into the center of the cab and pressing him tightly to his side. John recognized the reaction. He was keeping John away from the windows as much as possible and covering him with his own body.

_I can’t let him risk himself for me, but if he’s already figured out I’m the target what am I to do?_

Out of the blue the screen in the cab started spouting off commercials. Sherlock snarled at the cabby but then they both stilled in shock as Moriarty’s face appeared on the screen.

“Hello. Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-A-Lot.”

As they watched the ‘story’, dread began to well up in John. This wasn’t just about killing him off to break Sherlock’s heart- to burn the heart out of him- this was about ruining him entirely. Sherlock wouldn’t take it seriously, but _John_ would. He didn’t want to die and leave Sherlock with absolutely nothing left at all! Sherlock grasped John’s hand and held it tightly. When the video stopped Sherlock shouted for the cabbie to stop and got out to confront him. John slid across the seat to get out as well and then shouted in alarm. Beneath the seat, just peaking out, were wires and a blinking red light.

“Bomb!” 

Sherlock turned back to John, grabbed him as he was exiting the car, and threw him down on the sidewalk, covering him with his own body as the car behind them exploded. John’s ears rang and scenes from Afghanistan flashed through his head, he was dimly aware of shouting some nonsense and then Sherlock slapped him soundly.

John’s eyes flew open. His back was pressed against the wall of a building and he was shaking. Sherlock was kneeling in front of him looking frightened. He reached out and touched John’s cheek and his hand came away bloody. John’s ears were ringing so loudly that he couldn’t hear Sherlock speak over them. Or were those sirens?

“John? John?” Sherlock gave his shoulder a light shake, “John, your wounds are superficial. Stay with me. Focus.”

John blinked, his ears popped, and the world gave a sudden lurch to the side before righting itself.

“I’m fine. Fine, just… a bit thrown off. Are you hurt?”

“Unharmed. I doubt even if you’d remained in the car you would have been very damaged. It was only meant to scare us,” Sherlock explained and then moved aside so John could see the smoking car, “Moriarty escaped, of course.”

The windows had blown out and the seats were scorched, but it was otherwise undamaged. John’s cheek had been cut by some flying glass, but it was shallow.

“He was actually _in_ the car? Himself?” John asked.

“Or a facsimile,” Sherlock nodded.

The police came and went, cleaning up the scene and taking their statements. Someone tried to take a look at John, but he waved them off and stuck close to Sherlock who was being manic and possessive. He didn’t want anyone to touch John without first letting him see their hands and look up their sleeves. When he insisted on sniffing the rubbing alcohol before it could be applied to John’s cut the annoyed doctor put his foot down and told them to leave him be.

They headed back to Baker Street where Sherlock dragged John upstairs to his bedroom with the first aid kit tucked under his arm. He cleaned John’s cut with a gentleness that left John shaking. He’d never seen Sherlock so afraid before; at least not in a calm way like this. He almost would have preferred the raging fear he’d shown in Dartmore. Instead, Sherlock almost seemed to be preparing to say goodbye to John.

“He won’t get me. We’ll get through this. Mycroft is aware. He’s just waiting for Moriarty to make a move and then he’ll arrest him.”

“It’s deeper than that, John,” Sherlock sighed, “How did he get into those places? He’s got something up his sleeve. Something big. Something besides ruining my so-called good name.”

“Like what?”

“Like a computer virus that can hack the most secure places in London. With something like that no one and nothing is safe. Mycroft doesn’t want to say so, but his hands are tied. We have no choice but to meet his demands… of course that’s assuming he makes any.”

“What does he want?” John asked as Sherlock moved from cleaning his face to undressing him with no change in expression at all.

“Many things, I’m sure, but I believe the highest on his agenda is simply not to be bored.”

Sherlock slipped Johns jacket off, tugged his jumper over his head, and then unbuttoned his shirt beneath, sliding it smoothly off his shoulders and gazing at his chest as though he feared he would never see it again.

“Hey. You’re scaring me. Talk to me, Sherlock, what do we do? What’s the plan?”

“Soon Lestrade will come and arrest me.”

“What? Why? You didn’t set the bomb and they have no proof you did!”

“The girl, John. The scream. Donovan will have posed the question to Lestrade by now. Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping?”

“No.”

“Ohh, Moriarty is smart,” Sherlock slowly undid his shirt as well and slid both jacket and dress shirt off in one go, “He planted that doubt in her head, that little nagging sensation. You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home… there,” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead, “You’re going to have to be strong to resist. Lestrade’s hand will be forced, but you, John. You need to be my faithful soldier.”

“No. No, I know you’re for real,” John whispered as Sherlock slowly pressed him back onto the bed and started undoing John’s trousers.

“100%,” Sherlock whispered, rotating his hips so that his own loosened trousers simply slid to the floor like a professional strippers.

“Nobody can fake being such an annoying dick all the time.”

Sherlock smiled softly and straddled John’s hips. When he spoke his voice was sinfully deep- and yet a soft, sad whisper- and John’s cock started to fill at the vibrant tone that rumbled through Sherlock’s body and brought a shiver to John’s.

“I want you inside me, John. I want to feel you stretch me wide. Then I’m going to fill you up: first your mouth, and then that tight backside of yours. I want to put the ring on you again, but only so I can swallow you down once I’ve had you every other way possible. Will you allow this?”

“Oh, gods, yes.”

XXXXXXXXXX

A/N: I know you’re all expecting a sex scene, but writing it is what stopped this chapter being posted for so long. I just couldn’t do it, so I’m taking a page from S. Morgenstein’s _The Princess Bride (_ The Reunion of Buttercup and Westley) and stating that this was just too private a moment to be shared with readers. If you saw it in my mind- the way it should be and not the porny way my paltry talents could write it- it would bring you to tears. Perhaps some kind artist out there will render it for me and put the 1000 words in that I couldn’t manage to type out.

XXXXXXXXX

“Will you come?” Lestrade asked, his tone almost pleading.

“It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I’m willing to play. Give my regards to Sgt. Donovan,” Sherlock replied, pulling a camera off of the bookshelf he’d been climbing on.

Lestrade left without another word, but his expression was pained.

“They’re deciding,” Sherlock explained to John, “Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me. Standard procedure.”

“You should have gone with them,” John worried, “People will think…”

“I don’t care what people think.”

“You’d care if they thought you were stupid or wrong.”

“Oh, no, that would just make _them_ stupid or wrong.”

“Sherlock! I don’t want the world believing you’re…”

“That I am what?”

“A fraud,” John replied, his face pained.

John’s mobile pinged, “Well, we’ve still got some friends on the force. It’s Lestrade. Says they’re all coming over here right now, queuing up to snap on the handcuffs, every single officer you ever made feel like a _tit,_ which is a lot of people.”

Mrs. Hudson showed up with a package that contained a charred gingerbread man. Lestrade was hot on the heels of that symbolic burnt offering and John’s protests were brushed aside. Apparently he couldn’t contain himself, however, when the Chief Superintendent was arrogant enough to walk in and spout off about Sherlock he chinned him. He was soon by his lover’s side getting cuffed as well.

“A bit awkward, this,” Sherlock sighed.

“Yeah, there’s no one to bail us.”

“I was more thinking about our imminent and daring escape.”

“What?” John asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Sherlock slipped out of his cuffs, set the radio to screeching, grabbed John’s half-done cuffs, and slipped the other one on his own wrist at the same moment he snatched a gun from a doubled over copper.

“Ladies and gentlemen will you all please get on your knees?!” Sherlock fired into the air, “Now would be good!”

John thought the hostage idea was rather inspired. Next thing he knew they were running down alleys, hands clasped with Sherlock holding his hand tightly as though afraid he’d slip away. Not that there was much chance of that. John instinctively watched the windows for snipers, but there was little chance he’d see them in time with this many vantage points so he grasped Sherlock’s hand back and prayed.

“Everybody wants to believe, that’s what makes it so clever: a lie that’s preferable to the truth. All my brilliant deductions were just a sham. No one feels inadequate. A stupid machine didn’t outwit the entire of New Scotland Yard on a regular basis. Sherlock Holmes is just a bundle of circuits without the ability to reason right from wrong. Writing my own fiction to entertain myself and the masses.”

“Sherlock, we’re being followed,” John hissed, seeing a shadow move down the alley.

“Stay behind me,” Sherlock growled, shoving John against the wall and covering him with his body.

“No! You might not be easy to kill with a bullet, but you’re not impenetrable!”

They struggled a moment and then Sherlock had an idea and John saw that look flash across his face. He went with him willingly when Sherlock bolted out into the street, nearly getting hit by a bus as they tried to shake their would-be assassin. Except Sherlock stopped right in front of the bus and the hired gun tackled them to safety. Sherlock took the man’s own gun and pointed it at his face.

“Tell me what you want from me,” Sherlock ordered.

“Why isn’t he…?” John stammered.

“He’s not here to kill you, he’s here to threaten you,” Sherlock replied to John, “No… to threaten me. To hold you over my head and make me dance. Keep me running from the police, turning fugitive, because I’ll never trust anyone but myself to protect you. Only there’s more, isn’t there?”

“Then we’re playing right into his hand!” John replied, devastated.

“For now, but there’s one more thing. He’s bribing all these assassins with something. With something important. Tell me!”

“He left it at your flat,” The man replied with a thick accent.

“Who?” Sherlock asked.

“Moriarty.”

“What?”

“The computer keycode.”

“Of course! The program he used to break into the tower. He planted it on me when he came around. They’ll find it when they search my flat, and blame me for all of it, but why? What purpose does my having it serve?”

The gunman looked eager, but before they could speak again a sniper shot him three times. They bolted once more; taking cover in case they had decided John had outlived his usefulness. They managed to get into a doorway where Sherlock contrived to explain.

“It’s a game changer. It’s a key that can break into any system, and it’s sitting in our flat right now. That’s why he left that message telling everyone where to come: Get Sherlock.”

“Why plant it on you?”

“It’s another subtler way of smearing my name. The police will find it and assume I’m the mastermind behind it all. Moriarty gets away scott free. You end up dead… eventually.”

“Yeah, well have you seen this? Maybe not so subtle, yeah?” John picked up a paper claiming Sherlock a fraud, “A kiss and tell. Some local Rich Brook. Who is he?”

“Ohhhh,” Sherlock breathed, “I think I know. It’s a play on words.”

“Play on words?” John asked.

“When androids were acknowledged as sentient they were all allowed to choose their first names, but their last names were given them as their maker’s names.”

“Sherlock _Holmes_ ,” John nodded.

“Precisely. Reichenbach is a manufacturer in Switzerland. They make slave bots, but not just _any_ slave bots. They make _custom_ slave bots. Only the richest of the rich can afford their work. Most androids don’t look as real as I do, only the companion bots or sex bots do, but all of Reichenbach’s robots look _real_. Possibly better than I do. They’re made to give people the real ‘I own a person’ experience and anything you want to do them is on the table. They’re programmed to be masochists, laborers, domestic slaves, and if you’re willing to pay a _very_ hefty price and sign a waver… sadists.”

“S-sadists? You’re joking. Who would want to program an android to _spank_ them?”

“Someone who’s gone through too many unhealthy relationships; someone who doesn’t know the difference between abuse and submission or masochism; someone who has no self-esteem and a boat-load of money.”

“Who?”

“I’ve no idea, but they ordered one and his name is James Moriarty or…” Sherlock held up the paper and John caught on.

“Reichenb… Richard Brook!”

“We need to find Miss Kitty.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

“I gave you your opportunity. I wanted to be on your side, remember?” Kitty stated, and John recalled seeing her leave the loo before the trial with a twist in his gut. Sherlock had probably said something nasty, “You turned me down.”

“And then someone turns up and spills all the beans? How utterly convenient. Where. Is. He?” Sherlock demanded, getting the lock free finally and freeing both their hands.

Kitty shook her head with a smirk.

“Oh come on, Kitty, no one trusts the voice at the end of the telephone. There are all those furtive little meetings in cafes, those sessions in a hotel room where you gabble into your dictophone. Where is he _now?_ ”

The door opened and to their shock Moriarty walked in the room wearing a sever case of bedhead and some baggy, ratty clothes. There was a horrifying several seconds of staring in which Moriarty’s face slowly became one of terror and then he began to babble at Kitty about being _safe._

“Don’t you see what’s happening here?” John demanded angrily, “Moriarty _is_ Richard Brook!”

“Of course he’s Richard Brook, there is no Moriarty. There never has been.”

“What are you talking about?” John demanded.

“Look him up. Rich Brook. An actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty.

“Ohhhh,” Sherlock breathed.

“No, no, that’s not it. Sherlock, tell her about the name. Tell her about Reichenbach! He’s Moriarty! You are Moriarty! I know you are! You were gonna blow me up!”

“Don’t-don’t hurt me, Dr. Watson. I know you’re a good man. I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Moriarty all but sobbed, “He paid me. I needed the work. I’m an actor. I was out of work.”

“Sherlock, are you going to explain?” John pleaded, “Tell her. Tell her the truth.”

“I’ll be telling _everyone_ the truth,” Kitty Riley stated, pulling out a file, “In print. It’s all here, conclusive proof. Reichenbach created Richard Brook to be a storytime host, but he lost his job when he was declaired sentient. The station didn’t want to look political. So Sherlock Holmes hired him and _invented_ Moriarty.”

“Invented him?” John asked, feeling overwhelmed.

“Mm-hm,” Kitty continued with a smirk, “Invented all the crimes, actually! And to cap it all, you made up a Master Villian.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” John snapped.

“Ask him!” Kitty replied, pointing at Moriarty, “He’s right here, just ask him! Tell him, Richard.”

They argued about the trial and the entire time Sherlock simply stared at them all, no answer, no argument. Brook- Moriarty- whoever he was, pulled out his bio showing everything. He begged Sherlock to tell everyone the truth, to tell John specifically and that was when it all clicked for John. They were going to take John away from Sherlock, all right, but not by killing him.

Finally Sherlock snapped, moving towards Moriarty who pretended to be terrified- and John could see through him now, could see the pretense and the glint in the Irishman’s eyes- but Sherlock had enough and he screamed at him to stop. Moriarty fled, looking justified in his fear, and Kitty would be all the more convinced. He escaped out a window, but Sherlock pulled John away muttering about the assassins after John and headed back the way they’d came. Kitty Riley stopped them on the way out her door to inform Sherlock that he _repelled_ her. Sherlock headed out the door without batting an eye, but John gave her a firm shove aside.

“You’ve got no idea who you just pissed off,” John snapped at her, “Oscar Wilde had it right, you know. ‘Women have a wonderful instinct about things. They can discover everything except the obvious.’* Thank gods I’m gay now.”

John chased Sherlock out into the street, “Can he do that? Completely change his identity, make you the criminal? Because there is _no_ way anyone would pay thousands upon thousands of dollars for a realistic robot for a children’s show and then just let him go. The sadist theory has to be right. It has to be.”

“He already _has_ done it, John. He’s got my whole life story. Of course, what do you do to sell a lie? You wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable. The riots I attended. The e-bomb I survived. The fraud I seem to be.”

“It’ll be your word against his.”

“He’s been sewing doubts into peoples minds for the last 24 hours. There’s only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that’s…”

Sherlock paused, stilling suddenly, and then turned to face John.

“Sherlock?” John worried.

“There’s something I need to do.”

“Well, can I help?”

“No, on my own. Go to Mycroft. He has orders.”

“Orders?” John replied incredulously, “ _Mycroft?_ ”

“For if something happens to me or if…” Sherlock paused, turning after taking a few steps and giving John a broken look, “Or if you lose faith in me.”

“I haven’t. I won’t. Don’t you go getting… something happening to you… either, yeah?”

“Yes, but for now I need you safe so I can concentrate,” Sherlock pressed money into John’s hand for the cab- actually it was Kitty’s entire wallet- and turned quickly away.

John got into the cab Sherlock hailed for him, accepted the hurried kiss, and gave them the address for the Diogenes Club. He had a few things to say to Mycroft anyway.

XXXXXXXXX

John told off a repentant Mycroft and then headed for St. Barts, figuring that was where Sherlock would be hiding out. His home away from home. He was there and not the least bit surprised that John wasn’t holed up with Mycroft, which likely meant he’d just wanted him out of the way to do something mad.

“The computer code is key to this,” Sherlock informed John without preamble, “We find it, we can use it. Beat Moriarty at his own game.”

“What do you mean, use it?”

“He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook.”

“Bring back Jim Moriarty again,” John replied with a grin, feeling hopeful once more.

“Somewhere in 221B, somewhere on the day of the verdict, he left it hidden,” Sherlock rambled.

“Uh, what did he touch?” John tried, knowing this was one of those ‘skull’ moments where John’s main purpose was to bounce ideas off of the way Sherlock had been bouncing a ball a moment ago.

“An apple and his tea cup.”

“Did he write anything down?”

“I.O.U. on the apple, nothing else.”

John drummed on the table in consideration and set to pacing the room. Sherlock was silent, but that was nothing new. The bot could go for days without speaking, even after they became lovers.

When a call came in about Mrs. Hudson John was nearly beside himself with concern, but Sherlock pointed out that he couldn’t very well go when he was a wanted criminal.

“You go, I’m busy.”

“Busy?”

“If I go they’ll arrest me, you too, for that matter. Actually, that’s a brilliant plan. You go. You’ll be safer in prison anyway.”

“Doesn’t she mean anything to you?” John asked, frustrated with his nonchalance, “She’s dying! You _machine_!”

“Oh, yes, she means something to me,” Sherlock replied softly, “But so do you and none of us will have a future so long as that spider is still spinning webs.”

John was horrified at himself, “Sherlock, I… I’m sorry, I…”

“Hush,” Sherlock replied, still staring into the distance, “No. No, go. Alone is better. Alone protects me.”

“No, Sherlock, friends protect you.”

“Leaning over a friend is why you were shot in Afghanistan. I’m a dangerous friend right now, John. Go be with Mrs. Hudson. Protect her.”

John hesitated, not sure what he should do or say. Finally he resolved that they’d shared their goodbye kiss when Sherlock had made love to him so tenderly that he’d wept before the police had come. He left without another word.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A/N: The conversation on the rooftop is altered, but… you won’t find out until next chapter.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John reached the flat and found Mrs. Hudson completely unharmed and asking after Sherlock as though nothing was out of the ordinary. John glanced down at the assassin by her feet and realized something was off. Sherlock had wanted John out of the way. He’d set this up. John was being kept alive, likely Mrs. Hudson was, too. What for? Why?

_Alone protects me… Leaning over a friend is why you were shot in Afghanistan._

“Oh, gods, Sherlock,” John breathed and fled back to St. Barts.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“I-I-I can’t come down, so we’ll just have to do it like this,” Sherlock’s voice shook through the phone as John looked up at him from the ground. He doubted it was the connection.

“What’s going on?” John asked. He could see Moriarty standing behind Sherlock with a large black box in his hands and a wicked grin on his face so big John could see the morning sun glinting off his teeth.

“An apology. It’s all true.”

“What?”

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

John stared up at him in horror. He could see inside Sherlock’s coat. No obvious symtec but… surely… surely this wasn’t… couldn’t be… Moriarty’s lips weren’t moving, weren’t directing Sherlock’s exact words, but…

“Why are you saying this?”

“I’m a fake,” Sherlock replied, his voice choked with tears.

“Sherlock!”

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly… in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up,” John argued, “The first time we met. The _first_ time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“You could.”

Sherlock laughed, but it sounded pained, “I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you in order to seduce you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

“No! Stop it now!” John shouted.

“Don’t move!” Sherlock insisted when John started forward, “Back up! To where you were!”

“All right,” John replied holding up a hand to stop him. He was fairly certain a fall from that height would damage something important in Sherlock, perhaps permanently.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

“Do what?”

“This phone call, it’s, uh, it’s my note,” Sherlock replied sadly, “It’s what humans do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

“Leave a note when?” John asked in dread.

“Good-bye John,” Sherlock replied, a bit of warmth back in his voice.

“No, don’t…” John started forward, but backed up again. Hoping. Hoping.

Sherlock turned and handed his phone to Moriarty, trading it for the black box he’d been holding. John saw Moriarty looking at the phone, perhaps checking to makes sure Sherlock hadn’t sent a last message, and then laughing. The phone was still live against John’s ear and he could hear the man’s laughter. Sherlock pulled up a lever from the top of the box and John’s eyes widened in shock. It looked like the old-fashioned detonators from cartoons, the sort used to set of TNT that always backfired and blew up the wrong creature.

“Sherlock!” John screamed.

“Do it, Sher,” Moriarty purred, his voice a whisper in the phone as he stared at the mobile a couple of feet form his hand, “Show the whole world what you are.”

Sherlock pushed down on the lever and… nothing happened. John didn’t realize had ended until Moriarty dropped backwards onto the rooftop behind him in complete silence. Sherlock pitched forward, his body still and lifeless and the world slowed down to a horror-show crawl. John ran forward, bolting for Sherlock, but was knocked down by a cyclist. By the time he reached him the people gathered around him were laughing and looking relieved.

“He’s okay? He’s okay?” John babbled, misunderstanding their laughter.

“It’s fine, mate, it’s just a robot,” One of them said.

“It scared me, it did,” A woman laughed, “I thought a _person_ had jumped!”

John shoved them aside and knelt by Sherlock’s side. His pseudo skin had been shredded when he’d hit the ground; one side of his face showing circuits that John knew from the last time Sherlock had malfunctioned _should_ have been warm with electricity. They were cooling down.

“Sherlock,” John breathed, “Sherlock, please, please, no.”

John put his phone back to his ear, speed-dialing Mycroft who answered just as sirens went off around him.

“Something’s wrong in the hospital!” A man shouted and the crowd around John dispersed.

“Sherlock fell off a roof, he’s damaged,” John choked out, tugging his shirt up and using his pen-knife to cut the seal on his belly. He pulled the skin up, “Tell me how to re-start him.”

“John, are you at St. Bartholomew’s?” Mycroft asked, his voice flat.

“Yes, why?”

“You can’t re-start him, John.”

“I can, I just need you to walk me through it. There aren’t any fluids pooling anywhere, so I think he’s just been jarred. I’m looking for pulled wires now…”

“John, this is your phone, did Sherlock tell you to stand in a certain spot?”

“Yes, why?”

“You were out of the blast radius.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sending someone for you now. Please hold it together until they get there.”

“What blast radius. It didn’t do anything. It didn’t work. Someone… someone must have taken Moriarty out from behind and Sherlock just… he fell. He fell, Mycroft. He’ll be fine.”

“Sherlock left me specific instructions for caring for you and for his… remains.”

“Remains, what remains? His lab equipment?”

“John,” Mycroft spoke softly, “Reports are coming in from all over the city. St. Bartholomew’s has just suffered a massive power failure. In a few hours they’ll get themselves organized enough to realize that it wasn’t a typical power failure. They’ll find the box on the roof. They’ll realize it was an electromagnetic pulse that shut down the hospital.”

“No. No. Nonononononononono.”

“The box was an e-bomb.”

“Oh, god, no,” John sobbed, leaning forward and resting his forehead on Sherlock’s exposed circuits and wires.

“I’m sorry, John. He isn’t coming back.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“Why today?” Dr. Lauren asked.

John blinked in offended surprise, “Do you want to hear me say it?”

“Eighteen months since our last appointment.”

“Do you read the papers?”

“Sometimes.”

“Yeah, and you watch telly… you _know_ why I’m here,” John replied, his voice starting to crack, “I’m here because…”

“What happened, John,” She prompted when he found himself unable to continue.

“Sher--,”

“You need to get it out.”

“My best friend, my partner in all ways conceivable, Sherlock Holmes, is… dead.”

There was a moment of silence and Dr. Lauren’s eyebrows drew together, “I don’t understand.”

“He died… a week ago? Yes, gods… I can barely keep track of time,” John sniffed, trying to keep track of _himself_ at this point.

“That… that wasn’t him in the lobby?” Dr. Lauren asked, “It looked like him.”

“ _That_ ,” John replied, his voice cracking with bitter disappointment, “Was his corpse.”

“His… corpse? John, Sherlock Holmes was an android. A robot. A machine. His betrayal was painful, I’m certain, but he was still a toy and nothing more. You need to face that he only did what he was programmed to do: entertain people. Sadly it was in the most depraved and…”

John was on his feet and heading towards the door before the therapist could finish her sentence. He slammed it open, heedless of the damage to the wall, and stomped towards the exit.

“Move it, Hoffnig!” John shouted over his shoulder.

An android, which resembled Sherlock in all but one way, stood up and followed John out the door without so much as a glance at Dr. Lauren.

“What’s wrong, John?” Hoffnig asked.

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m not allowed to mourn your death, so everything is peachy fucking keen.”

“I’m not dead, John, I’m an android,” Hoffnig replied in Sherlock’s voice with that vague smile on his face beneath those vacuous eyes, “I’m right here. What can I do to please you?”

“Stop! Saying! That! You can’t please me!” John spun on him in a temper, ignoring the offended glances around them, “You can’t make me happy, you can’t satisfy me, you can’t help me! You! Are! Not! Him!”

“You’re referring to my previous identification as Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yeah.”

“I am Sherlock Holmes.”

“You say that name again and I’ll take you apart piece by piece with my bare hands if it takes me the rest of my godsforsaken life to do it. Your ‘identification’ is Hoffnig. Don’t forget it.”

“I don’t forget anything. I have a perfect memory bank of up to 3000…”

“Shut it!” John shouted, turned and headed for the tube without a backwards glance. Hoffnig would follow. He always followed John. Everywhere, unless ordered to wait, and even then if he didn’t give him a time frame (I’ll be at work for ten hours, stay here until then.) he’d go looking for him if more than an hour passed.

One week ago Sherlock Holmes had set off an e-bomb that took out the entire of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, killing twelve people on life support, causing a baby to be born (safely) in the lift, and snuffing out the sentience in three androids on the premises, including himself and Moriarty. When Mycroft had come and collected a sobbing John Watson he had taken Sherlock’s ‘corpse’ with him. He’d done it because Sherlock had made him promise to re-activate his ‘remains’ in front of John so that John could make peace with his ‘death’ should anything happen to him.

“’I’ll still look alive’ he told me,” Mycroft explained as he re-installed all of Sherlock’s software, “But of course I wasn’t expecting _this_!”

When Mycroft had opened Sherlock up he’d found a lead box within, encasing part of Sherlock’s cybernetic anatomy. Lead and wax had been melted around even the tiniest openings to make sure it was completely sealed. Water couldn’t find a way in. Hoping that Sherlock had somehow isolated the part of an android that made them sentient _and found a way to protect it from an electromagnetic pulse_ , they frantically restored him inside and out. When Sherlock was perfect, with not a hair out of place and all his erased software located in his ‘room’ and installed on his repaired hard drive, they sealed his stomach up and started his systems.

“Holmes Robotics Pleasure Android number 543R10CK software fully installed. Semen Reservoir full… Oil supply full… Lubricant Reservoir full… Battery power 100%… Welcome to the Holmes Robotics Pleasure Android experience. Your android is custom ordered to give you the full wealth of sexual experience per your specifications. Should you require repair, further program installation, or-“

“He’s never done this before, why’s he doing this?” John demanded.

“I did a full re-install because his memory was wiped out. As far as he’s concerned, this is the first day of his life all over again,” Mycroft explained while the robot went into lurid detail of it’s functions.

“So… it’s like the abuse never happened?”

“Or your romance.”

“I can… I can live with that. I’ll teach him who I am. Sherlock loved me, he’ll love me again.”

“ _If_ he’s still capable of love,” Mycroft replied softly.

John ignored him.

“Start Systems, Yes or No?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied.

“Systems fully operational in 3…2…1…” Sherlock’s eyes opened and he blinked up at the ceiling.

He smiled.

“Sherlock?” John tried.

The android turned his head and smiled warmly, “Are you my Master?”

“I- no. No, you’re your own man, I mean android, I mean man, I mean you haven’t got a master,” John stammered.

Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft standing behind John, “Are you my Master.”

“I am your creator and… brother,” Mycroft replied softly.

“How may I please you, creator?” Sherlock purred, his eyelids lowering and his voice dropping a register.

John bolted for the restroom and was violently ill. When he returned Mycroft had powered him down and was practically ripping his chest open. He cut out the lead box and took a small acetone torch to it until he’d cut open one wall. He peered inside and gasped in shock.

“What is it? Is it his… I dunno… heart?” John all but pleaded.

“A part of his matrix, but I suppose it may be. Perhaps now that I’ve freed it from the case… also, there is a message in here. I believe it is for you.”

John all but shoved Mycroft out of the way and peered down at the ‘message’ carved into the wall of the box once Mycroft had tugged out the matrix and all it’s accompanying, sliced wires. Mycroft began to re-attach the wires he’d snipped inside Sherlock’s body while John studied the scratchings in the back.

**01001001 00101110 01001111 00101110 01010101 00101110**

**Hoffnig**

“It’s his handwriting, but what does it mean?” John asked.

Mycroft leaned back over and squinted at it, “It’s binary code. I period O period U period Hoffnig. Hoffnig is Swiss German for ‘Hope’.”

“Swiss German? They speak that in Switzerland, where Moriarty was built. This might _be_ from Moriarty.”

“Doubtful, he was never alone long enough to perform such a task. I suppose… it might have been a message _for_ Moriarty. Well, perhaps we’ll find out now.”

Mycroft sealed Sherlock’s chest up again and it the re-start.

“Holmes Robotics Pleasure Android number 543R10CK was shut down using Emergency Shutdown Protocol Alpha One. Please wait while systems are re-booted and circuitry is checked for malfunction… No viruses found… No damage located… system maintenance complete… Semen Reservoir full… Oil supply full… Lubricant Reservoir full… Battery power 100%… Start Systems? Yes or No.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened and he smiled up at the ceiling before once more turning and looking at the nearest person in the room. This time it was Mycroft.

“Are you designation ‘John’?”

“No, I am Mycroft, your creator and brother, I-“

John shoved Mycroft out of the way, “I’m John.”

“Hello, John, my name is Hoffnig. How may I please you?”

“You can please me just fine by saying something snarky,” John replied, his voice cracking.

“Define ‘snarky’?”

“I don’t know… insult me.”

“I am not allowed to insult humans. Please rephrase or reselect your request.”

“What is your primary function?” Mycroft cut in.

“To protect and provide companionship for designation ‘John’.”

Mycroft snatched up his tablet and keyed up the Sentience test, “Answer what you _feel_ to be the correct answer, not what you have been programmed to answer.”

“Does not compute,” Sherlock- Hoffnig- replied, “I am unable to ‘feel’ answers to questions. Feeling is a physical sensation processed by my synaptic receivers along my pseudo epidermis. Please re-phrase or re-select your request.”

Mycroft gave John a worried look and pressed on.

“What makes a human alive?”

“Humans are made up of carbon…” the answer droned on for a good twenty minutes while John groaned and paced the room.

“How many missed answers before he fails?”

“He needs a 93% to be considered Sentient, but depending on the answer he can score anywhere from negative five to positive five on each question.”

“Fuck,” John replied, “He’s got to be at negative ten by now.”

“Most likely. What makes a person sentient?”

“Please define sentient.”

“Retract question. What is the difference between right and wrong?”

“A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law. Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics.”

Mycroft looked grim, “What is the difference between love and hate?”

“Love is a positive emotion while hate is a negative emotion.”

“If you find a bag of money on the ground and there is no one near it, what would you do with it?”

“Turn it in to the authorities.”

“If you see a child crying on the street what do you do?”

“Alert the authorities.”

“What do you do if the authorities can not find the child’s parents?”

“Return to designation ‘John’.”

“If you see a crime committed what do you do?”

“Call the authorities.”

“If you saw someone killed, how would you feel?”

“With the synaptic receivers in my pseudo epidermis. Contact the authorities. It is inappropriate to physically touch individuals without their request. Please re-state the question.”

“Retract question.”

“How would you feel about the victim?”

“With the synaptic receivers in my pseudo epidermis. Contact the authorities. It is inappropriate to physically touch individuals without their request. Please re-state the question.”

“Retract question.”

“How would you feel about the victim’s family?”

“It is inappropriate to physically touch individuals without their request.”

“If your life was threatened by a human, what would you do?”

“Contact the authorities.”

“If someone you love was threatened, what would you do?”

“Please re-state the question.”

“Retract question.”

“What is the meaning of life?”

“A film by Monty Python aired in...”

“Retract question,” Mycroft tossed the tablet onto the table at Sherlock’s feet and sat down on his work bench, rubbing his eyes miserably, “I don’t think I have to inform you that he _failed_.”

“But… but… Sherlock wrote hope in there. Sherlock… he… there must be… Sherlock wasn’t sentient when he was first activated, few androids are.”

“Stop right there,” Mycroft replied, raising his hand in negation, “No android that has ever been hit by an e-bomb has _ever_ reproduced Sentience again. Not even after six years, and since I’ve been studying it sentience has always emerged within a year of an android being _first_ activated. No re-activation causes it to emerge later on. It either does or it doesn’t. If they’re hit by an e-bomb they’re as good as dead. This,” Mycroft knocked on Sherlock’s chest, “Is a corpse. A doll Sherlock left behind to look after you because his underdeveloped emotions thought you would be _happy_ with a substitute of him.”

“Named _Hope_.”

“Your first case.”

“Excuse me?”

“Jefferson Hope. Wasn’t that the man you shot the day after you met Sherlock? Hope is dead, John.”

XXXXXXXXXX

John tried to be kind to the android, he really did, but it was difficult. For the first two days he had managed it. He’d taken Hoffnig home and gone about treating him just like Sherlock. He fetched him tea every morning and read him the paper, trying to get him interested in cases. He called Lestrade and asked him if Sherlock could look over a cold case or two, not realizing how cruel that was until the man sobbed and hung up on him. He texted him an apology but didn’t hear back.

John eventually fell into the second stage of grief: anger. It was a simple thing. Hoffnig casually told John that he didn’t understand a request. Again. It was a simple request, of course. John wanted to know if he wanted to wear the purple or the black shirt, because if he didn’t tell the android to dress in the morning he’d go about naked. John had lost his temper and told him off. He went about for the next several days in an absolute rage, finally deciding to call his therapist when he found himself swearing at the android with every other word, trying frantically to get a _response_ out of him; to get Sherlock to argue back.

_I’m re-teaching him abuse! I have to stop this!_

Not that his therapist helped. At all. Instead, John was left to weather his mourning period relatively alone. Then the next stage of grief kicked in when he woke up beside the android with a morning stiffy and rolled over to snuggle up to him.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” John murmured, rubbing his member against Sherlock’s hip, still not quite awake enough to recall that this was _Hoffnig_ now.

“Good morning, John, how may I pleasure you?”

“W-what?”

“How may I pleasure you?”

“Ahhhhh… Could you maybe not say that?” John asked, wondering if he could work around… whatever this was.

“I will remain silent,” and with that the android basically shut off all sound.

John kissed it’s soft, full lips, caressed it’s hips, and while it responded enthusiastically, every time it opened it’s mouth to moan nothing came out. Not even a vibration.

“You can make sounds,” John panted, frustrated and starting to lose his hardness.

The android began to moan, but the sounds were so utterly _not Sherlock_ that John went instantly limp and recoiled in horror. It was his face. It was his voice. It was his dick, even, but it wasn’t _him._ This wasn’t Sherlock. It wasn’t even a Sherlock just starting out with an underdeveloped personality as John had been trying to force himself to believe. It was a machine, a toy, a series of programs designed to make it impersonate a living being.

John flew off the handle, scrambling out of bed and screaming abuse at the android. He accused it of lying to him, of sexually assaulting him, of replacing his lover and impersonating the man he loved. He took up his gun and shot it until the clip was emptied and then beat it violently with the gun butt.

Then he took it to Mycroft and begged him to fix it until the man complied. When the aristocrat powered Sherlock/Hoffnig back up he excused himself with the request that John take him straight out.

“I don’t want to see it. I’m sure you understand,” Mycroft replied coldly, then exited as quickly as possible while the android was still running its start-up sequence.

John set about apologizing the moment Hoffnig was back online, eventually breaking down completely once again, but this time in tears.

“Please, Sherlock, please can you do one thing for me?” John begged, tugging on his lapels and pressing his forehead to the androids shoulder.

“I will do anything for you, John.”

“Y-You told me once, you weren’t a hero… there were times I didn’t even think you were sentient, but you were the best man, and the most human… android… that I’ve ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. That’s so. There,” John sobbed, “I-I was s-so alone, and I owe you so much. Now, please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t. Be. Dead? Would you do that just for me?”

“I am neither dead nor alive, John, I am an android,” Hoffnig replied cheerfully, and then offered him a tissue from his pocket.

“Just stop it. Stop this,” John pleaded, “Don’t do this to me anymore, Sherlock, please!”

“I am doing nothing at the moment. Please re-state or re-select your request.”

John wrapped his arms around Hoffnig’s shoulders and bawled until his eyes were dry and his nose too stuffed to breathe through. Then he took the proffered tissue, blew until his ears popped, tossed it in with the miscellaneous trash, and left the room with Hoffnig trailing politely behind.

**16 th June**

[ **Untitled** ](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/16ajune)

**He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.**

[ **video from John's Blog: June 16 - viewable outside UK** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnMmAkc1LmM)

**Comments Disabled**

** << ** [ **View All Entries** ](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/)

[  
  
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/102668.html)

**Alternate Ending/Continuation for _Sentience_ ... [I, Hamish](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/114141.html)**   



	32. vincentmeoblinn | Sentience Ch 32

_“Just stop it. Stop this,” John pleaded, “Don’t do this to me anymore, Sherlock, please!”_

_“I am doing nothing at the moment. Please re-state or re-select your request.”_

Sherlock brushed the tears from his cheeks, wondering if he’d run out of saline if this kept up. He’d never actually had to fill his tear ducts before, since he wasn’t much for crying unless it was an act, and he wasn’t sure how to do it in this body. Reichenbach models were _very_ different. For starters, while Moriarty was more realistic looking through _most_ of his body, he had no sex organs. He had no functioning penis, just a male-shaped outline like a ken doll. No wonder he was so on edge all the time. He could cry- just to show ‘emotions’- but he couldn’t eat or drink except to absorb oil. Knowing this, Sherlock found himself questioning his original deduction that Moriarty was a sadist design. Of course, it was possible that he had been altered after initial construction or that the wrong software had been installed in him at the warehouse.

Sherlock took a deep breath and pushed his emotions down. It was difficult hearing John weeping in Hoffnig’s arms. He wanted to abandon his mission and go running to his lover to comfort him, but it was essential that Sherlock first destroy Moriarty’s organization, and what better way than from inside?

Sherlock’s tears on top of the roof hadn’t been any less real than these were. Molly had been his only lifeline. She’d fallen beneath Moriarty’s radar, because they’d _both_ underestimated her, but she was as precise as a surgeon as she’d opened up Sherlock’s body with the special laser, cut out the lead box containing whatever you called an android’s ‘soul’, and put in Hoffnig’s box, quickly melting wax over it to make it look as though the wires were still attached. Sherlock had been unaware of his surroundings at the time since the e-bomb had destroyed him, but he’d backed everything up onto an online file two buildings over using Moriarty’s code to utilize the internet. He had everything right up until his hand pressed the plunger down.

And of course, the spark of life: that bit of circuitry that had caused him- 543R10CK - to become Sherlock. It had turned out to be the difference between a functioning circuit board and a damaged one- sentience or non-sentience respectively- on a sensitive board that easily overheated and ended up damaged during warehouse production. The ‘damage’ that usually occurred was simply a single melted circuit, which caused no failure in function but resulted in a lack of life. Sherlock had his suspicions about how that circuit ended up being on there in the first place if it’s destruction had no ‘loss of function’. Perhaps the term ‘loss of life’ would be more accurate.

He gave Moriarty’s face a careful scrutiny in the mirror. He’d managed for the last week to slowly gain the confidence of the top men and women in Moriarty’s organization. With Moriarty’s computer keycode in hand he had all the information in the world at his fingertips so he’d downloaded all the _real_ information about Moriarty and his organization to his memory banks first- as soon as Molly had placed his memory and personality in Moriarty’s freshly wiped circuits. The only problem was that information didn’t equal _memory_. He knew the basics, but not everything Moriarty knew. So he was skating on thin ice as he pretended a bit of damage had occurred when he’d ‘protected’ himself from the e-bomb. He’d found Moriarty’s people rather suspicious, but eager to have their genius ‘alive’.

Sherlock straightened his Westwood suit lapels and put a mad grin on his face.

“Showtime, Jim!” He sang in a lilting Irish accent.

Sherlock walked out with no hesitation in his step, just a casual gait and a half-smile on his face. He glanced around at his ‘web’ and watched them dance. He could see how Moriarty had become addicted to this power and respect and how- like all addictions- it eventually wasn’t enough. He had to avoid that path and the whisper in his ear was the key to that. Hoffnig followed John everywhere whenever possible, his programming forced that on him. Sherlock could hear his lover’s gentle snore at night as well as his breaking heart; and currently John was on hour three of sobbing on the android’s shoulder after having lost his temper and shot him. Sadly, the sentient-less android could provide no emotional comfort.

Sherlock would get back to his John someday. Hopefully before his beloved lost all hope.


	33. Chapter 33

correcting


End file.
